


Mr. Universe

by Likerealpeopledo, vivianblakesunrisebay



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate universe-Alternate universe, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Realism, Meet-Cute, Orgasm Delay, Patrick is not smooth down there, coming out of the closet (literally not metaphorically), there was only one closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-24 23:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30079704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianblakesunrisebay/pseuds/vivianblakesunrisebay
Summary: The last place David expects his life to change is in a room with a heart-shaped bed and a mirror on the ceiling, but the universe has other ideas.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 95
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Distractivate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distractivate/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for Distractivate. It is two weeks late, or fifty weeks early. We prefer to think it is right on time, because human gestation is measured strangely to begin with and birth-fortnights sound fun. So Happy Birth-fortnight to a lovely soul who deserves to be celebrated over increasingly strange increments of time, we hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Note: This fic is finished and will be posted a chapter a day (Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday).

No one could use a little magic in his life more than David Rose.

Rose Apothecary is beautiful, impeccably merchandised, and newly open to the public. And he is pretty sure it is going to fail. He is terrified it is going to fail.

He has been crying in the Love Room for hours, after maybe having a little too much vodka and a joint of uncertain provenance. He is hiding in the Love Room out of a desperate need for privacy, but the unfortunate mirror on the ceiling forces him to confront the way his face looks when he cries, and also reminds him of when he and Stevie hooked up here. 

Not that he wants to repeat that. He and Stevie are much better off as friends _without_ benefits. 

It’s just—it reminds him he’s never had a successful relationship. And probably never will. So it’s another area he’s a failure. Also he’s lonely. And horny, in the disheartened way that made him, in his old life, throw on his leather jacket and hit the clubs looking for randoms.

Randoms are depressing, and in this town, not all that random, so he lets his mind go back to his store. He thought forty thousand in startup money, and selling the products on consignment, would make sense from a financial perspective. He likes to think that he actually _had_ a financial perspective, which is new and different and good. But everything is so expensive and he keeps finding more and more things he has to buy and pay for. He sees the money disappearing fast and the store has barely opened. So it is going to fail.

He’s feeling sorry for himself, okay? He has to, because no one else will. 

He flops over on the bed and wraps his arms around the miserable collection of lumps that is this pillow, in its not-real-satin pillowcase, and lets the tears run into it.

His fingers brush against something shoved between the bed and the wall. He raises his head and sees it is a bit of cloth, so ancient it looks a bit like parchment. Even though it looks very dusty and old and is probably infested somehow, like the rest of this godforsaken motel, he reaches down and pulls it out. 

The cloth is wrapped around something, like it could be a clue to a Survivor hidden immunity idol. The object it is housing seems to be a pocket watch, silver and very tarnished. Maybe he can sell it for cash. When he opens it, though, it isn’t a clock face. One side is a large blue button, and written around it in ornate lettering, it says, _Get what you need, Guaranteed!_

The other side has an engraved symbol, what looks like the scales of justice. It’s hard to tell. 

He pushes the button. Nothing happens. 

This probably isn’t real magic. Just a toy left behind by some motel guest’s kid.

Bitterly disappointed, he sits down on the bed.

His eyes land on the cloth that the watch was wrapped in, which he dropped on the disgusting comforter. He picks it up and unfolds it. It has lettering on it. It’s hard to make out what it says; the ink is smudged and everything is jumbled. As a point of fact, the words _move_ , fading in and out on the cloth, even in the dim light of the wall sconce. But one thing is clear: at the top, in bold letters, it says _To Get What You Need._

As his eye scans down, the letters take shape as he reads them. It’s a list of instructions. It looks like a recipe, or some kind of spell.

His hopes rocket up again. Maybe this is magic after all.

Magic is not something that David has ever experienced himself. Alexis once found a spell to help her find an escape route out of some sultan’s palace, and she continues to be insufferable about being _chosen_ even now. He spent some time in his twenties throwing money after getting a chance at magic, but everyone knew the rules: _magic chooses you, you don’t choose it._

Does David want to _get what he needs?_ Fuck, yes. 

His mind races with possibility. Money. He’s pretty sure it will be money. Has to be. What else does he need? Nothing. He _wants_ plenty of things. The new sweater in the 2017 Dries van Noten collection. Tickets to a Mariah Carey concert. A good fuck. A large pepperoni pizza delivered to him _right now._

Mm, pizza. He picks up his phone. There is a place in Elmdale that delivers—

Stop. Focus. 

He gets to work assembling the ingredients listed on the cloth. Most of it is pretty benign stuff that people seem to keep in their kitchens—normal people, not Stevie. So he heads straight to the Schitts’ house, and he’s able to distract Jocelyn enough to collect most of it, by complimenting her cat sweatshirt and not openly weeping at her decorating shortcomings.

Then he’s back in the darkened Love Room, ingredients assembled before him on the table, musty cloth clutched in his hand. There’s a request for a lock of his hair that almost calls the whole thing off. Then there’s the drop of blood he has to press against the engraving. If he wasn’t so drunk and high he might have paused at sacrificing his own hair—compromising his silhouette!—and his literal life’s blood. 

But he does it. 

Then he presses the button again.

Again, nothing happens. He was picturing a chest full of cash appearing in front him, but there’s nothing. 

Maybe magic is more sophisticated than that, and the money has been deposited in his bank account. He takes out his phone to check.

He’s just called up the Elmdale Bank app when there is a loud bang and dense smoke begins pouring out of the closet. His first thought is for his sweaters, and his second is blinding panic. Is _what he needs_ to perish in a motel fire?

He stands frozen, clutching the watch.

The smoke gradually dissipates so the inside of the closet is once again visible. And what his magic has called up is not money. 

It is a _man._

That is definitely a man, or what looks like a man—but who knows, David isn’t taking anything at face value here. He’s smallish in stature. He doesn’t appear to be angry, or monstrous, and he’s fully clothed, which, honestly, is a relief. The man has brown hair, cut short, and wide-set brown eyes. His jaw and chin are covered in a soft-looking, sparse stubble with barely-there eyebrows (perhaps the recipe needed more burnt David hair—which, no), and pink lips. Nothing about his face is terribly remarkable, really. If the man wasn’t standing in David’s closet, he isn’t sure that he would have looked at him twice. As it is, though, David can’t stop looking at him, or the rolled up sleeves that expose defined forearms.

He looks like someone who goes to the gym.

It’s at this point that David realizes that he should probably do something to protect himself, just in case. There’s very little in the way of weapons present in the Love Room except for some of Alexis’ abandoned beauty supplies. David lunges for them, picking up an eyelash curler and a broken hair straightener and brandishes both at the—man. Alien. Zombie.

“Who are you?” It seems like an important thing to find out, prior to aggressively...curling this man’s lashes.

“I’m Patrick.” The man holds out his hand and steps closer. From this distance, it is apparent that his lashes are fine the way they are.

David backs up and clicks the hair straightener as threateningly as he can. 

Patrick drops his hand, and his ears sort of wiggle and his lips curve into a smile as if they’re all operated by the same muscle. It’s the cutest fucking thing David has seen happen on the face of a grown man—or alien—in a long while and his heart actually bounces in his chest. 

He steels himself against it. Murderers can be cute. That’s how they get close enough to murder people. He looks again at his inadequate weapons. He’s definitely going to die here. Murdered by his own creation, just like the movies warned him.

There is a knock at the door, a knock that David knows well, one whose volume and force is all out of proportion to the tiny hand that wields it. “Come in!” he yells gratefully.

He keeps a wary eye on Patrick as Stevie opens the door.

Her eyes immediately light on Patrick. “Hi. I’m Stevie. And that’s David, if you don’t know that already.”

“Patrick.” He holds out his hand to her too.

“Be careful!” David says as Stevie steps toward him, but Stevie ignores him.

They shake hands. David winces, thinking Stevie might go up in a puff of smoke too, but nothing happens. He isn’t sure that _dangerously polite_ is akin to murder.

Stevie says, “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. I guess I’ll leave you two lovebirds—”

She turns back towards the door, giving David a discreet thumbs up. 

“No!” David says. “This isn’t—he’s not—please don’t go.”

“What?”

“Excuse us,” David says to Patrick. He pulls Stevie aside while Patrick retreats to the corner of the room and leans against the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets.

David sets down the eyelash curler but holds on to the hair straightener, just in case.

“What’s going on, David?” Stevie says.

David hisses, “I guess I—summoned him. Or I made him.”

Stevie turns her head to look Patrick up and down. Blatantly. “Made him? Like a cake? That is definitely not a cake.”

“No.”

“It’s a beefcake.”

“Ha, funny.”

“Necromancy?” Stevie suggests.

“I’m not dead,” Patrick pipes up.

“Stop listening to us!” David shouts at him. He swipes at his brow.

“Sorry,” Patrick calls back. He shrugs, without taking his hands from his pockets. 

“He’s pretty cute,” Stevie whispers, leaning into David’s ear. Her breath tickles.

“He’s wearing a polyblend,” David hisses back.

“Well, you dressed him.”

“I did not.” 

“You mean he didn’t show up naked? Like the Terminator?”

“Do you really think I would have chosen that ensemble?"

She lowers her voice even further. “So, you don’t know if he…”

“If he _what,_ Stevie?”

“He could be, you know—” Stevie points. “Smooth down there.”

“Stop it,” David interrupts, grabbing her pointing finger. He’s pretty sure, based on the close fit of those jeans, that Patrick, in fact, has something _very_ nice going on down there, but that is beside the point right now. 

Patrick speaks up again. “Can I be a part of this conversation?”

“No!” David turns back to Stevie. Speaking low, he explains as quickly as he can what just happened, stumbling through _magic_ and _what you need_ and _blood and hair_ and _puff of smoke._

“Oh, well, obviously, what you need is—him.” Stevie gives Patrick another once over. “Nice. Have fun.”

“That’s not the way it works. You don’t get _people._ I’m not an expert, but you get money, or an—object, or, if you’re Alexis, an illuminated route to escape a Middle Eastern palace.”

“I’ve seen it happen. Sometimes people can get matched up. When I was a kid, it happened to my Aunt Maureen when the motel flooded. A handyman appeared and helped her fix things up. Then eventually he, you know, hopped back on the next beam of light or whatever.”

Patrick says, “Thank you, Stevie. That’s it. Except for the beam of light.”

“Seriously, stop listening to us!” David frowns at Stevie. “The spell said it would give me what I need. What I _need_ is money, not—” He waves his hand, encompassing Patrick’s whole presence. 

At that, Patrick starts to—droop. His ears go back to their regular height, the corners of his mouth turn down, even his shoulders slump (though they are still very broad and sturdy-looking, eminently rubbable).

David starts to feel a little bit guilty, and steels himself against it. What the _fuck._

“Look,” Patrick calls out. “I promise I’m not an alien, or Frankenstein’s monster, or a robot. Or a Ken doll.” He directs the last one at Stevie, who just shrugs, unrepentant. “I cast a spell too, and it sent me here to you.”

David sighs. Begrudgingly, he puts down the straightener. Patrick’s hair is too short anyway. “Okay. Maybe we need to compare notes.”

* * *

They are sitting in a booth at the cafe, a plate of misshapen mozzarella sticks between them. 

“So you’re actually from the planet Earth, right?”

Patrick holds back a grin, responding mechanically. “That. Is. What. They. Tell. Me.” 

“Listen, bub.” Did he just say _bub?_ What is happening? “Now is not the time.”

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry.” Patrick starts folding and refolding his napkin. “My understanding is that there are dimensions? Alternate universes? It’s like deja vu, but with locations. Everything that happens here happens there, but with slight variations. For instance, do your penguins fly?” David shakes his head, and Patrick continues, “Hmm, they’re very majestic. Anyway, I think the magic sort of bridges those gaps.” 

David hates how charming Patrick is while making vague approximations about time and space. And penguins. 

“So you found a spell too? And you cast it, and appeared here?” 

“Basically, yeah.” Patrick nods.

“Do you still have it?”

Patrick digs in his pocket and pulls out a faded scroll. He hands it over.

David takes it gingerly. His fingers brush against Patrick’s. Everything about Patrick, even his fingers, seem warm and sturdy and solid. 

He studies the scroll. It looks a lot like his cloth, but there is no title across the top. “What did you think would happen?”

Patrick looks slightly sheepish. Briefly. “I didn’t know.”

“You just found a spell and decided to do it. With no idea what would happen.”

“Well, isn’t that what you did?”

“Mine at least said I would give me what I _need._ Which I thought was money. But apparently, it’s you.”

Patrick shrugs, but he looks a little...smug. Or something.

David narrows his eyes, studying him. Could he be…? No. There’s no way he just magicked himself up a boyfriend. Maybe a hookup? He would definitely not object to that. Those forearms, those eyes, and what he saw earlier of what he is packing in those jeans—

A faint flush creeps into Patrick’s cheeks, and David realizes he’s spent the last few moments ogling him pretty blatantly. He drops his eyes.

Patrick clears his throat. “Um. Maybe you can start by telling me what you need help with? What do you need money for?” 

David tears his mind away from what Patrick looks like naked. Stupid Stevie for putting that picture in his head. “Oh. My business. I need it for my business.”

Patrick’s face lights up. He pulls a business card out of his pocket and slaps it down with a flourish. _Patrick Brewer, business consultant._

“I think it’s pretty clear how I can help you, David.” 

Well, of course David hasn’t been sent a boyfriend. That isn’t how this works, anyway. Everyone knows there are rules about that, consent rules. He thinks. This isn’t the middle ages. Or the patriarchy.

“Um. Why do you want to help me?” 

“I like helping people.”

“So you’re a genie, or something? Do you just go around appearing in people’s closets, and offer to help them?”

“No. Not a genie. And as for closets, um, this is the first time.”

“And when you’re done, we just push the button again and you go back?” 

“What button?”

David takes out the watch and opens it to show him.

“Is that what you pushed for me to get here?”

David nods. 

Patrick takes it and drops it immediately, shaking out his hand.

“What?”

“It burns a little.”

They both look at it on the table. 

“I think, yeah,” Patrick says. “We push it and I go back. From the closet, probably. But that’s after I help you.” He smiles.

David still doesn’t understand why Patrick seems so eager to help him. But maybe he shouldn’t look a gift horse—or gift man—in the mouth. Even if it is a very nice mouth. 

“Will you tell me about your business, David?”

David takes a deep breath. “Okay.” He stumbles through an explanation, and frankly, he sounds like an idiot, but then Patrick asks him questions, and gradually his thoughts arrange themselves more logically. He finishes by describing how the unexpected costs have depleted his capital and the money doesn’t seem to be coming in fast enough to replace it. “I just don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Starting a business is expensive, David. A lot of people underestimate startup costs. It’s one of the number one problems I help people deal with.”

David usually intensely dislikes being told he is similar to anybody else, but in this case he will make an exception. “So you think it’s fixable?” A delicate frond of hope starts to unfurl inside him.

“Oh, it definitely is.” 

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you have me.” And that tone, and that direct gaze, and the idea that David could _have_ this man—could _lay claim_ to him, even in just this one way—all of that makes David feel a little weak.

David nods. “Yes. Yes. Okay.” 

“Thank you, David,” Patrick smiles, and he’s looking at David like David is doing _him_ the favor. 

* * *

The store is very busy the next day. Word has gotten out that a man from another dimension has appeared in Schitt’s Creek, and naturally everyone wants to come and goggle at him. From experience, David can’t say he blames them, although he does wish the clothing in the little suitcase that appeared in the closet alongside Patrick contained slightly richer or more luxurious fabrics. His skin tone would really sing in a suede. 

David does his best to upsell everyone while Patrick looks over the books and endures everyone peering into the back room to catch a glimpse of him. Then the press of customers forces him to abandon the back room in favor of working the register, which causes even more of a stir. Alexis practically launches herself over the counter with her aggressive flirting, and David feels a jolt of possessiveness. _That’s my magic not-genie. Get your own_.

But he can’t pay attention long enough to gauge Patrick’s reaction; he’s busy answering Jocelyn’s questions about the cat hair scarves, which she wants to match with her cat sweatshirts. Not unrelatedly, he’d be satisfied to claw his own eyes out.

When he finally sends her on her way with no less than five scarves, Alexis appears at his shoulder. “So what’s the story with that little button-face you conjured up?”

“He’s from an alternate universe."

“Like an alien? Fun! Ooh, what if he has wings or something?”

“Stop it. You can clearly see he doesn’t have wings.”

“Maybe they only pop out when he’s…you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” David pauses. "Um. Are you going to try to...provoke...that?”

She makes a frustrated sound. “No. He didn’t ask for my number or anything. He only talked about you.” She pouts, and David tries not to feel self-satisfied. He fails. “I wish the spell I found had given me a little cutie like that, instead of a boring old escape route.”

“You were pretty grateful for it at the time. Besides, he wasn’t _given_ to me. Not like that. And I don’t even know what his preferences are.” David shoots Patrick a glance, and finds Patrick is looking at him. He looks away quickly.

“Well, magic happens for a reason, David, and somehow I doubt he came here just to give you business advice.”

“Go away, please.”

She smirks at him and slinks away, and then another customer claims his attention.

David finally locks the door behind the last departing customer. “Well, you might have already helped me turn things around just by appearing here,” he says. “I should have charged them, like a peep show.”

Patrick laughs. “That might be why they came in, but it was your products, and your ability to sell them, that helped the most. You really have something here, David.”

Patrick is beaming sincerity out of those eyes of his, and David feels warm all over. If _Patrick Brewer, business consultant_ thinks his business has a chance, maybe it really does.

“However, I do have some ideas,” Patrick continues. “Can I show you?”

David goes over to the cafe to get them some dinner, and they eat sandwiches while they huddle over David’s desktop computer. Patrick is a good teacher. He explains things very clearly and patiently, and all the half-learned things David has jumbled in his head start to come together.

They work late into the night, and David manages to keep his mind mostly on the business, and to only think every five minutes or so about how nice Patrick smells, or to ogle the tantalizing V of skin revealed by his open-necked shirt, and how that V shifts as he moves, widening a little to reveal more of his throat, or dropping down to show more of his chest. When he stands up to stretch David is sure that a poly blend, light blue shirt and a pair of tight, mid-range jeans is the sexiest outfit in this or any other dimension, calculated to push buttons he didn’t even know he had.

* * *

It’s a Friday night when David bumps into a giggling Patrick and Stevie in the motel office. 

Patrick is wearing a very soft looking blue henley with joggers and a baseball hat. It might be as David’s gaze lingers on the ass contained within said joggers that he realizes Patrick doesn’t only exist inside his store. He has a life and hobbies and _hats._ David isn’t sure about the hats. 

No. The hat is very cute. Patrick is sporty. He looks sporty. He’s got that beer and rowdy fun vibe about him, like he understands the rules to cricket and explains them to people. Like he performs cricket recreationally. It’s probably too late for him to join an interdimensional league at this point. 

“Hey David,” Patrick greets him. “Stevie and I were thinking about inviting people for a games night. Do you want to join?”

David joins.

The evening begins with Patrick, Stevie, David, Eric, Connor, and Twyla playing several raucous rounds of party games in Patrick’s room, and ends with David and Patrick alone, cross-legged on Patrick’s bed, the world's most elderly game of Boggle between them.

Patrick has been on a cosmic roll in terms of emerging victoriously from all the other games they’ve played together tonight. Until he comes up against his greatest foe: David Rose and sixteen lettered dice in a four-by-four pattern.

They’ve played a few rounds, and Patrick has performed so abysmally he turned his hat backward so he could, as he put it through adorably clenched teeth, _rally._ So far, as David scores another 88 points with _vanities,_ the rally seems to be coming up short. Going long? Whatever rallies do when they don’t work. 

“No, David, ‘fiol’ is definitely a word where I’m from. It’s what they call the thing on the end of your shoelace.”

“No, that’s an aglet.”

“A fiol,” Patrick argues. 

“Well, clearly we have a language barrier because in this reality, Fiol is a proper noun and a delicious Prosecco. Should we go to the phones?” They’d already had to look up Patrick’s claims of _nav_ and _tiele_ and _votan._ For as sharp and as competent as Patrick is, Boggle appears to be his Waterloo.

“Hmmph.” Patrick makes an angry slash through _fiol_ on his answer pad. He drops his pencil onto the bedspread and scrubs at his face, knocking his baseball hat all the way off. “I think I might be too far behind to catch up, unless we play about seventeen hundred more rounds.” He looks at David questioningly. “I mean, I am totally up for that.”

David taps a finger on Patrick’s knee. “Hmm, I think this might be the universe’s way of telling us we’re better off on the same side.”

“Ah, true. We did wipe the floor with Stevie and Twyla in Charades. And Pictionary. And Trivial Pursuit,” Patrick says with a smile that turns his face bright. 

He isn’t wrong. It truly was amazing how their separate knowledge bases eerily complemented each other in Trivial Pursuit. Stevie actually called off the game when they were four wedges ahead of everyone else, over Patrick's vociferous objections and a threat to suspend league play, whatever that meant.

After getting boggled by Boggle, they end up stretched out on Patrick’s bed with a plate of cheese and crackers between them, talking about everything and nothing. Patrick is good at getting David to talk, at listening, at teasing when a story starts to feel like it’s heading into vulnerable territory and making David feel safe. The stories Patrick tells in return are light and jokey and usually involve one of his cousins, or a friend from school, or a sporting event. He’s funny and charming and David likes him—not just because of that long column of biteable skin at his throat—but because he’s good. Nice. He’s sweet. 

David doesn’t realize the time until he hears birds chirping outside and they start to scramble so they can shower and change before they need to open the store.

He’s collecting his shoes when Patrick casually drapes the spare blanket around David’s shoulders. 

“We’re already going to be working on no sleep, I can’t have you catching a cold on the way back to your room, too,” Patrick says, probably off the look of fond surprise on David’s face. He adjusts the blanket at David’s chin as he stands to go. “I mean, I will need it back. Eventually.”

David smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of not returning this woolen nightmare.”

That’s when Patrick’s face doubles down on what could easily be confused with affection and David’s heart traitorously turns to molten lava in his chest. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening, David. I had a lot of fun.”

“Hmm, no, thank _you_ ,” David says, watching Patrick’s lips curve into a smile. Unable to stop watching, actually. Until it gets a bit awkward and even Patrick gets restless and then, blessedly, the moment passes, and David exits.

Shuffling back to his room and waiting to the last possible moment to shed the warmth of Patrick’s motel blanket, David muses that it’s nothing short of miraculous that he’s found the last decent person on earth, who just happens to be not of the same dimension. 

What is even more miraculous is how well they work. Together.

* * *

“So he’s helping you with your business, and that’s it? You guys aren’t—” Stevie waggles her eyebrows. He’s at the cafe having breakfast with Stevie and Alexis before he has to go spend another day trying not to be driven to distraction by lust. 

David groans inwardly. First Alexis, now Stevie. “No! We’re not. I’m pretty sure that’s—like, against the rules, or something. And this is supposed to be about what I need, not what I—” _want. Like, a lot._

Stevie says, “Are you sure? Because you should see how you look at him.”

“How do I look at him?”

“Like you’re thinking about how much you _need_ to tap that ass.”

David scowls. He isn’t that obvious, is he?

“I mean, I don’t blame you.”

Alexis swirls her straw in a smoothie of questionable ingredients. David can smell...actual grass. “And it isn’t like he isn’t looking at you the same way with his little businessman eyes.”

“I don’t know what that means,” David denies. Okay, maybe he’s caught some looks. Patrick has really big eyes. That isn’t on David. 

“I think it means that he may also have needs,” Stevie says, not helping at all. As per usual.

Of course David has thought about it. Sometimes it’s all he can think about. “Well, what happened with that handyman? With your aunt. When he was done helping her, did he just disappear?”

She shrugs. “I think so. I never asked her if they, you know, had a tryst.”

David makes a disgusted face at _tryst_ and decides to change tacks. “It just doesn’t make sense. What is he getting out of this?”

“Maybe when he goes back to where he’s from, he’ll get offered a reward or something. But I think that’s the universe’s problem, not yours.”

“Huh.” David frowns as Twyla sets down his pancakes. “Why does magic have to be so hard?”

Twyla pauses, interested. “Ooh, are you going to do a magic show? Your all black wardrobe is really sort of perfect for that. If you ever need an assistant, my mom used to saw me in half at parties all the time when I was a kid. It wasn’t _technically_ magic, but.”

Alexis reaches over a currently short-circuiting, almost apoplectic David to keep Twyla from walking away. “Do you know anything about magic, Twy? Not like, icky Criss Angel performance nonsense but like, fun, whimsical, mystical magic?”

“I mean, a little. How can I help?”

They detail David’s concerns and when the peanut gallery is finished making their contributions, David watches Twyla’s face carefully.

“Well, the way my family always explained it was that magic between universes creates an imbalance, and that imbalance can’t go on too long without creating…problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

Twyla shrugs. “I don’t know. But everything has to even out—eventually. And I think as long as Patrick is here, things are out of balance.”

“Is there another way to…restore balance? Other than Patrick leaving?”

Twyla says, “I mean, maybe? But that’s kind of beyond what I know.”

“So helpful,” he mutters. “Sorry.” This isn’t _her_ fault.

Stevie says, “Twyla, do you know if there are any rules against—” 

“Stevie!” David says. He knows where this is going. 

But Stevie just goes on, louder, “—trysts? Between people in different dimensions?”

Twyla looks thoughtful. “I mean, I don’t think so? I know magic and spells can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. They’re _very_ big on consent. So it’s really up to the people involved.”

Stevie and Alexis both give him meaningful looks. Stevie says, “So if two people were to—”

“Thank you, Twyla, that’s all we wanted to know,” David says loudly while shooting a glare of death at his sister and alleged friend.

“You’re welcome.” Twyla smiles and goes back to the kitchen.

“See, David! You’ve just gotten your approval from the universe.”

“It’s not just up to _me,”_ he says crossly. He rubs his temples. “Magic isn’t supposed to be _hard._ It’s supposed to be, hocus pocus I get what I want.” And what he _wants_ is his adorable and vexing business consultant who is supposed to be making things easier for him, not harder.

So to speak.

Alexis says, “It’s ‘get what you _need,’_ David. Which is not always the same as what you want.”

“Please do not start quoting Rolling Stones lyrics right now. I don’t have the energy.”

“David, ew! I would never! You know Mick Jagger swiped my favorite Marant leather skinnies.”

“Ugh.”

Wishing he’d never mentioned a single word of his internal strife to this gaggle of heathens, David finishes his pancakes and makes a decision.

He likes Patrick. That much is clear. But universal approval or not, Patrick’s stay is temporary, and temporary isn’t something David is willing or able to do anymore. What he needs has to be more permanent than that.

* * *

There’s no doubt that, bad as Patrick is for his peace of mind, he is _very_ good for David’s business. In fact, David would think that Patrick is irritatingly competent at just about everything, except for Boggle and now the Incident of the Negotiation, which David can’t help secretly gloating over in a way that probably doesn’t say anything good about his character.

The way it happens is this: David has to drive to the Amish farm to talk to them about selling their cheese and butter, because the Amish do not use phones. When he gets back after a very productive conversation with Miriam, he finds Patrick at the register with a vendor contract in front of him, scowling at Tricia, one of the first vendors he talked to and someone he never got around to signing a contract with. She’s a wizard with eucalyptus but every conversation with her is like wading into a torrent of illogical pronouncements, half finished tangents, and unpredictable outbursts.The key is let her words flow over you, and find little hooks to bring her back to the topic at hand.

David can see that Patrick is _not_ doing that. He is saying in a decidedly exasperated tone, “But this is the same contract we are setting up with all the other vendors. A two-thirds/one-third split is very fair.”

“I don’t care. I want three-fourths.”

“Can I show you the cost breakdown again?”

“No, I don’t trust numbers.”

Patrick seems personally offended on behalf of numbers, but then he obviously makes an effort to restrain himself. “If you’re concerned, you could have a lawyer look it over."

Tricia looks aghast. “No. My cousin’s boyfriend is a lawyer and he likes pickled onions. Can’t get enough of them. Eats them at every meal.” She widens her eyes meaningfully.

Patrick is pained. “Well, I don’t think that would affect his ability to look over a contract. And, there are other lawyers, if you don’t like him—”

"What do _you_ think of pickled onions?”

“I—what?”

“I need my prices to be higher. Or I walk.”

Patrick blinks. “Because of the onions?”

David decides to put him out of his misery. “Hi, Tricia,” he says.

Tricia turns, and her face lights up. “David!” 

“Did you have some questions about your contract?” He comes around the counter to stand next to Patrick.

“Yes. He’s”—she jabs a finger at Patrick—“telling me I only get two-thirds of the proceeds from my products. What kind of scam are you running here?”

“Scam!” Patrick exclaims.

David puts his hand on Patrick’s arm. “No, you see, Tricia, that’s what makes this a partnership between us. Rose Apothecary is an environment?” He gestures around the store, and Tricia looks around. “Your products are showcased and merchandised in a way that actually _transcends_ value.”

“Ah!” Tricia’s face lights up. “Now someone is finally talking sense.” She glares at Patrick.

Patrick nods stiffly. “I will just get out of your way, then.” And with a dramatic toss of his imaginary cape, Patrick sweeps through the curtain and into the back room. David thinks he may be able to hear the shrill tea kettle whistle of steam emerging from Patrick’s tiny overly reddened ears. Poor thing.

Tricia rolls her eyes, and David has to bite back a smile. 

“Now where do I sign?”

* * *

As soon as Tricia leaves, beaming under David’s praise of her under-eye cream, David ducks in the back, where Patrick is looking sheepish.

“That didn’t go well,” he says.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

There is a little crease between Patrick’s light eyebrows. “I do, though. I’m supposed to be helping you, not making things worse.”

“But you see? Negotiating with artistic personalities is something I already know how to do _very_ well. For you to be able to do it too would just be redundant.”

Patrick’s voice still sounds grudging. “Well, maybe.”

“And hey, if you ever want tips, I’d be happy to give you pointers.” David pats his arm.

Patrick snatches his arm away, giving the most adorable huff as he does so, and David decides to forgo further gloating. He can be magnanimous in victory. It’s another one of his gifts.

* * *

It’s about ten days into Patrick's stay when David looks over to where Patrick is entering a list of vendors into Ray’s borrowed invoicing system, biting in his lip in concentration.

He thinks about how much he would also like to bite Patrick’s lip. He’s been thinking about it ever since Twyla said magic couldn’t make Patrick do anything he doesn’t want to. Well, since before that, but even more since then.

Sometimes he thinks Patrick would be interested in that, too. 

Is it a good idea, though? Would it complicate things? Would it make the universe so unbalanced that Patrick would disappear immediately? Or worse, would he disappear a little bit at a time, and leave David attempting to kiss a floating set of kneecaps before too long?

He doesn’t want that. He wants Patrick to stay...awhile.

He thinks again about what Twyla said. _The universe likes to see things even out._

Maybe he could do something for Patrick too. Balance things out, and maybe Patrick could stay longer.

What could he do for Patrick? Some clothing advice, decorating recommendations...or a really spectacular blowjob. To start. Would that count as doing something _for_ Patrick if David enjoys it just as much? What’s the universe’s verdict on that?

Not a question he wants to ask Twyla.

If Patrick is going to leave anyway, maybe David should just go for it. Seize the day. Carpe the...business consultant.

Patrick catches David’s eye, and his eyebrows go up, and David swears that the gaze lingers two to three seconds longer than it should. 

“I’m just about done here,” Patrick says. “This will allow you to keep track of all your vendors easily, all in one place.”

“I just want to say for the record that my system was also working.”

Patrick smiles and says, “I did like your vendor wall of hand-lettered cards. Very creative.”

“Hand-lettered, _scented_ cards. A personal profile for each vendor, tailored to their product and personality.”

“What this new system lacks in aroma, it will make up for in efficiency, promise.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so,” Patrick says with a bold confidence that makes David feel all kinds of ways. David would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the weight of those words directly in his cock.

Things are definitely reaching critical mass.

He makes an excuse and stumbles out of the room because having an erection directly at your business not-genie is not only bad business ethics but probably punishable by several laws of magic, even if technically it isn’t against the rules. David’s fingers are actually shaking as he texts Stevie: _I’m gonna need more info on the handyman situation with Aunt Maureen._

* * *

Of course David’s text to Stevie is answered with a lot of middle finger emojis, presumably because it involves talking to her family. He still takes it as her tacit agreement to make the attempt.

And since that reconnaissance is still in progress, David resolves to treat everything with Patrick just like business as usual. 

David is restocking wine in the cooler while Patrick rings Ronnie up at the register.

“My newspaper was stolen again,” Ronnie announces. “Or it disappeared.” It sounds accusatory enough that David turns to look. 

Patrick hand falters in ringing up her honey-seaweed lip scrub. “I’m—uh, sorry to hear that.”

“You know, this happened years ago when Aunt Maureen’s handyman was here. And then again when Gwen won that trip to Fire Island. Anytime something overtly magical happens in this town, my newspaper grows legs and walks away. You tell me there’s no connection.” 

“I’d say that’s a pretty small sample size,” Patrick says evenly. 

Ronnie narrows her eyes, and David hurries up the cash register to run interference. “You know, I’ve seen some very methy youths hanging around lately. They seem like just the type to steal a newspaper.”

Ronnie turns to David and says in a friendlier tone, “I get that you need help with your business, and as long as he’s helping you—” She narrows her eyes at Patrick. _“Is_ he helping you?”

“Yes, yes, he’s helping me a lot.” David’s hands migrate over to Patrick’s shoulders. He gives them a little squeeze. Patrick’s expression softens a little.

“Okay. It’s just when magic happens, it throws things off. So as long as _he’s_ here”—she swirls a finger in Patrick’s direction—“weird things are going to happen.”

David hears himself laugh, high and unnatural. “Well, just an average day can involve Roland walking around shirtless for two days after a body waxing incident, so I’d say weird things are kind of the norm around here.”

“How long are you planning on staying?” she asks Patrick.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s already been two weeks.”

“I need to stay as long as—to help David make his business a success.”

David puts in, “And how does one define _success,_ really?”

“You know, if it were the twenty foot merlot carpet taking up space in my garage that disappeared, I could look the other way. But my Arts and Leisure section?” Her expression indicates that this is clearly, to any rational person, unacceptable. She turns back to Patrick and says, “Let’s not outstay your welcome, Brewer. The universe isn’t to be messed with.”

She nods at them and goes out.

David says, “Mmkay, that? Is a lot to pile on some missing newspapers.”

He peers at Patrick’s face. He looks thoughtful, and David doesn’t like that. Thinking is bad. Patrick needs to stop thinking. No, of course he can think. Just not if it involves boarding the next beam of light.

He says the first thing he can think of. He holds up the bottle of wine in his hands. “I’m so glad we got that wine shipment today. Finally!”

Patrick gives a ghost of a smile. “I’ll help you unload it. Where’s the other box?”

“Outside.”

“David! You left a box of wine outside?” Patrick turns to go out the back.

David follows. “The first one was very heavy. I needed to regroup.”

“But anyone could have taken it. What about the methy youths?”

“I’d be more worried about Stevie, to be honest.”

Patrick opens the door, and luckily the box of wine is still there. They unload it together in companionable silence. 

When they’re done, it’s five o’clock, and it’s time to close. David says, “Hey, maybe we should, um—should we open a bottle? Quality control?”

David wonders if he should ask about Patrick’s plans for leaving. Obviously he’s thought about it. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Patrick in the last couple weeks, it’s that he loves plans. He’s made of plans.

He wants him to stay. 

“You know Ronnie didn’t mean anything by what she said earlier, right? Like, you’re not...the reason our streets are laden with newspaper thieves.”

“I wouldn’t say laden, David. One person’s paper—anyway. Yeah, no. I’m not taking it personally.” Patrick catches David’s look of surprise. “I mean, a little personally, but. Do you still want to open that wine?”

David nods with enough vehemence he’s worried he’ll hurt his own neck. “Yes, definitely. Yes.”

They pour the wine into coffee mugs and sit on wooden crates in the stockroom. The space is small and filled with boxes, so they’re forced to sit close together. Too close, and yet not close enough. David feels like his senses are attuned to every movement, every breath, every flicker of expression on Patrick’s face.

_He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave and I’ll never know what his lips taste like._

Suddenly David doesn’t care about increasing his debt to the universe. He would pay any price just to kiss Patrick right now.

“Thank you for the new vendor system,” David says, just to break the silence. “You’re right, it is more efficient.”

“I’m glad. But I admit I’m very intrigued by the scent profiles you’ve made, David. How do you pick scents for someone’s personality?”

“It’s just—what feels right. It’s hard to explain.”

“Have you thought about making it part of the business? Charging people for a signature scent profile? Something custom they can’t get anywhere else.”

“Mm. Maybe. But what if Roland asks me for one? I doubt he’d pay for a scent profile of Cheetos and dandruff.”

“Actually, he might.”

David laughs. “All right, point taken.”

“What would you do for mine?”

Patrick looks calm but David thinks he sees a touch of... something in his eyes. Uncertainty. A little thrill shoots up David’s spine. “Okay. For you, I think—” He pulls over a box of candles that were delivered today. He opens it up and fishes around inside. “First, cedar.” He pulls out a candle and sets it on the desk. “For strength. Steadiness.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, and David finally glances at him. Patrick looks…shy. Shy and so, so pleased. David feels a little jolt. He didn’t know Patrick cared that much about what he thought.

David looks back in the box. 

“Freshly mown grass,” he muses. “Which I don’t see in here, unfortunately—ah! But here’s lemongrass, which works just as well. Citrus is a good scent for you too. It’s a nice fresh smell.”

“Fresh, huh?” Patrick laughs a little.

David frowns. “Yes. And it’s a compliment, so don’t laugh.”

“How is it a compliment? What does it mean?”

“It means you’re—honest. Straightforward.”

Patrick’s face softens. “Thank you, David. Please continue.”

“Then, vanilla.” He pulls out another candle and lines it up with the others.

Patrick frowns. Actually it looks more like a pout. “Vanilla means boring.”

“Vanilla is a lovely, underrated scent, Patrick. It’s warm and it’s cozy and it makes you want to—” 

“It makes you want to what?” If David’s not mistaken, there’s a definite flirty edge to Patrick’s tone. 

“Curl up under a blanket...with a good book.” _Or make out._

“That’s nice, David.” Patrick’s eyes are shining a little. “Thank you.”

David takes out one more candle and puts it next to the others. He speaks softly. “And lastly, cinnamon.”

“What’s that for?”

“Spice.” He licks his lips. “And—heat.” 

David turns to look at Patrick fully, and Patrick’s eyes flicker down to his mouth and back up again. They stare at each other for a long moment. Then David leans forward; actually, he feels _pulled_ forward, and he could no more resist kissing Patrick in this moment than he could stop his heart from beating.

Their lips meet, and Patrick makes a small choked sound of longing. That sound shoots right to David’s cock. Patrick surges forward, deepening the kiss. David opens up eagerly for him, and then they’re kissing like their lives depend on it. 

Patrick tugs at him, one hand around his back, the other on the back of his neck, trying to bring him closer. The crate David is sitting on scrapes across the floor, causing David to awkwardly pitch forward. David braces himself on Patrick’s shoulders as Patrick keeps kissing him, hot and deep and completely without reservation.

“Wait,” David says.

“What?” Patrick says. He looks dazed.

“Are you sure? Is this okay?”

“David, I want this so much,” Patrick whispers, before pulling David close to kiss him again, making another one of those little choked noises that David would like to spend his whole life hearing. All the scents that David just described for Patrick seem to be swirling over him, filling his senses with _Patrick Patrick Patrick._

Gradually, the tiny part of David’s brain that isn’t occupied with touching as much of Patrick as possible becomes aware that the roaring in his ears isn’t just lust, it’s the sound of rain pounding on the roof. The room is illuminated with a flash of lightning, and then the crash of thunder that follows is loud enough that David pulls back a little. Patrick makes a sound of protest and follows him with his mouth.

David takes Patrick's face in his, and he is leaning in to kiss him again when he suddenly sees something that makes him pull back abruptly.

“Patrick!”

Patrick’s lips are parted and a little bit swollen, but David can’t think about how kissable he looks because—

He gestures toward the desk. Patrick turns, and sees what David does. The candles he took out are lined up neatly, just where he put them. 

They are all alight. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning after their kiss, David walks to work. He stops into the cafe to buy Patrick a tea and a muffin. He’s feeling good. Those candles are nothing to worry about. Magic is in the air, as they say, and maybe candles spontaneously lighting themselves is a _good_ sign. Who’s to say?

David feels a little tendril of worry try to penetrate his good mood. Patrick left really quickly after they saw the candles last night. After that incredible kiss.

When David tries the door of the store, he finds it locked. That’s unusual. Patrick usually gets here first. By the time David arrives at nine—okay, ten—the lights are on, the music is playing, and a hot cup of coffee is waiting for him by the register.

But not today. David fumbles for his key and unlocks the door. The store is dark and silent. Patrick definitely isn’t here.

David looks everywhere for him anyway, in the storeroom, outside on the loading dock, and in the back room, all the while trying to ignore the voice in his head saying _he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone._

Finally, he drops his bag and he sinks down on his elbows on the counter. That’s it, then. It happened again. Obviously that kiss didn’t mean to Patrick what it did to him. Instead Patrick probably thinks he’s - desperate. Needy. David always does this. He asks for too much, and he drives people away.

Patrick could have at least said _goodbye._

Wait—the watch. The button. Doesn’t Patrick need it to go back? Could he have somehow taken it? He grabs his bag and starts pawing through it.

When Patrick opens the door and walks in, David can’t take it in at first. His surprise is almost equal to when he saw him the first time, only now he’s also so relieved to see him again he feels like he’s going to faint.

What comes out of his mouth, though, is “Where the hell were you?” He winces. That sounded like a screech.

Patrick doesn’t seem annoyed, though. His face softens like David just gave him a compliment. “Sorry I’m late. I was on hold with the Ministry of Small Business.”

“What for?”

“Grants.”

“What?” David is still trying to swallow the emotions that have taken hold of him by the throat. He sways a little on his feet.

Patrick looks at him more closely and comes around the counter. “Are you all right? You should sit down.” He takes David firmly by the arm and guides him to a chair in the back. He gets a glass of water and presses it into his hand. David drinks obediently, enjoying being fussed over.

“Thanks.”

Patrick sits down across from him. “I realized after what Ronnie said that I might not be able to stay much longer. There’s so many things we don’t know, with this interdimensional stuff.”

David forces himself to say it. “And you have your life to get back to.”

“Um. Yeah. That. So, I’ve been researching all morning. We have them in my universe so I was just seeing what you have here. I’m going to help you apply for some grants that you qualify for because you’re helping local businesses.”

“I see.”

“This way, you’ll have money to hire someone after I’m gone.”

“Hire someone to do what you’re doing?”

“Well, not as good, of course. But, the best _this_ universe has to offer.” Patrick is smiling.

“Mm. Right. So you’re...going, then. Soon.”

“Not quite yet,” Patrick says briskly. “I think we should do some checking around first, too. See what...Ronnie could be wrong.”

“She seemed pretty sure she was right.”

“Well, I’ll help you get the applications in. Grants can take a while in any universe, so in the meantime, we can...see what we can find out about all this. Magic. Ronnie’s theory.”

Patrick doesn’t look at him as he says this, and David wants to ask why he wants to find out more about Ronnie’s theory. He can’t possibly mean he doesn’t want to leave. Can he?

In between customers, they work on the applications. When they hit the submit button, David prays that the grants get caught up in endless bureaucracy.

* * *

The first logical stop on the Magical Mystery Tour is the Elmdale Library. It's actually the only stop, because they're already coming up on dead ends.

Cousin Bree was no help whatsoever regarding Aunt Maureen’s interdimensional handyman: _All she ever talked about were poker games and menthol cigarettes. Look it up, skank,_ read the text forwarded from Stevie, ending that line of inquiry rather abruptly. And when David asked to borrow Alexis’s laptop, she informed him, “Everyone knows you can’t believe a thing you read about magic online, David. It's all internet freaks and conspiracy theories,” and refused to hand it over.

So on a rainy Saturday afternoon, David finds himself leading Patrick through a section of the library bone-chillingly titled _Erotica._

David isn’t sure why Patrick wants to do this—research magic and interdimensional travel. Maybe he just wants to prove Ronnie wrong. They do a lap through the Magic section and collect a stack of books that they hope might contain some key to unlocking...everything. Or anything. All of the books are old, most of them are dusty, and some of them are in Latin. Luckily, David is able to call upon the vocabulary he amassed after his mother sent him to Latin immersion camp so he’d be better at running _Sunrise Bay_ medical jargon lines with her. Less luckily, none of the books seem to contain anything more helpful than what they already know. Patrick scribbles notes, undeterred, saying cheerfully, “All part of the process, David.”

All of this research probably has nothing to do with David at all, even if David can still feel the heat of Patrick’s touch lingering on his skin, lighting him up like an infrared map. It’s not like Patrick wants to leave this plane of existence because of him. Or stay because of him—that is too ridiculous to even think about.

So he is just going to do what he does best: complain.

“The nineties weren’t _that_ long ago,” David laments from his seat in front of an ancient microfiche, at the end of a long row of (almost as ancient) computers. “Why are we using a time machine?”

Patrick seems inexplicably excited about the microfiche...thing. He spins the knob on the side like he might win a prize when it stops. “Wow. I’ve only ever seen these things in movies. Microfiche sounds like something I’d put in my aquascape back home.”

David pauses at the mention of where Patrick came from. _Home._ “Aquascape?”

“It’s a landscape scene you create underwater, in an aquarium. Little trees and rocks, and mine had snails. I, uh. Anyway. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“I don’t know if I’d classify snails as relaxing,” David says.

Patrick gives a little shrug. “I guess it’s all relative. But yeah, even Pumpkin and Rock were a nice break from—stuff. You know.” His pale eyebrows dance in explanation.

“Yeah.” David doesn’t, in fact, know. He does know now that Patrick is the kind of person who names his pet snails and that’s sweet. Unnecessary but sweet.

When Patrick doesn’t expand further, David takes that as his cue to turn back to the archaic device that will allegedly shine a light on his—their—future.

Since there is limited space, Patrick keeps lingering on the periphery of the Erotica section. It’s making David nervous. He already pointed out a paperback called _The Joy of Uncircumcising_ and David is still having all kinds of unwanted Patrick-foreskin thoughts. Except they’re mostly wanted. And more like fantasies.

Anyway.

All his anxieties converge as another seat finally opens up and they huddle together at the microfiche machine, knee-to-overly-muscular-thigh.

They’re very close and David can smell the bright tang of Patrick’s soap, making it very hard to concentrate on newspaper articles from 1991. Or much of anything.

“There,” Patrick says softly, resting his own hand on top of David’s where he’s working the machine knob. David stops turning and breathing simultaneously. Patrick points. “See, _Mysterious Events Explained.”_

David peers at the screen.

“Um, no. That’s an article about the rise of grunge rock bands. But ooh, look at baby Eddie Vedder.”

They pause for a moment in appreciation before David returns to scrolling, the warmth of Patrick’s open palm still lingering on his skin even after it’s gone.

“Okay, there. For real this time.”

David can’t argue with the doppelgänger of Stevie that stares vacantly out of the screen, unsmiling.

Patrick begins to read. He has such a nice, clear, newscastery voice when he reads out loud. David keeps finding the weirdest things infuriatingly attractive. “‘Maureen Budd, 48, denies any culpability in the recent spate of mysterious happenings around Schitt’s Creek, despite the on-going presence of Boyce Barton, her paramour of two months.’”

“What was this, the Salem Witch trials? My god.”

Patrick’s eyes are still scanning the article and he’s turning paler than usual. But his voice is firm when he says, “Thefts, electrical surges, a freak lightning storm that shut down the paper mill for good. Those all sound like coincidences and town nuisances, not cosmic interference.”

“I mean, Roland is a town nuisance and he was here when we got here. But you...you’re not.”

Patrick puts a hand on his chest. “Thank you for saying I’m not a nuisance, David.”

“Um. Well. Are you thinking you want to stay now, or—?” David tries to say it casually but it probably sounds...as desperate as he feels.

Patrick is silent so long, looking down, that David worries he crossed a line. Finally he says, “Yeah, I really do.”

“Oh,” David breathes.

“What would you think about that—about me staying?”

David inches closer and puts his hand over Patrick’s. Patrick is still looking at the microfiche screen, but he turns his hand over and they clasp hands. He whispers, “I like you so much, David.”

David says softly, “I like you, too. And I want—I want you to stay.”

Patrick lets out a breath. He finally turns to look at him, and he smiles ruefully. “David, I have to come clean about something.”

David’s heart jumps in his chest. “Okay?”

“When I applied for those grants…I picked ones with the latest deadlines. I’m sorry.”

David tries not to find this charming, but he fails. He loves the thought of Patrick poring over grant applications, _scheming_ to stay longer. Because he wants to stay. Stay with _him._ “That’s very romantic.”

“Selfish, you mean.”

“It’s not selfish. Not when—not when I want that too.” He smiles.

Patrick’s responding smile is magnetic. He draws David’s mouth toward his for a soft, fond, happy kiss. One that starts to turn a little library inappropriate before Patrick decides to pull back. David's heart is racing.

“Okay, then we’re agreed. I should stay. Let’s figure out how I can stay.” Patrick interlaces his fingers with David’s and squeezes. He looks determined, and confident. If there’s a way to stay, David is sure they can find it.

They hold hands as they huddle over the microfiche, and David is actually a little embarrassed at how thrilling he finds it. There isn’t much else about Boyce in that article, unfortunately. They do, however, find a follow-up written a few weeks later that details his departure.

“So he just...left? After all that?” Patrick sounds alarmed. “Is there another article maybe? ‘The Triumphant Return of Handyman Boyce’ _?_ ”

“I mean, the town went back to normal. And Aunt Maureen was okay.” David knows for a fact she wasn’t, not from the way Stevie talks, but Patrick doesn’t need to know that. “Look, here’s a quote. ‘We decided to part ways because we were sick of the squawking, yes, but when it comes right down to it, it just wasn’t in the cards for us. Something was holding us back. I want everyone to know that I made this choice, for me. Not for the town. Because love is always a choice.’”

At David’s side, Patrick makes a noise under his breath.

David is afraid to tear his eyes off the screen, at the blurry words of thirty years ago that might change everything or nothing at all. _“Love is always a—_ mmph.”

Patrick’s mouth is suddenly hot on his, his hands gripping David’s face. His palms are broad and warm against David’s face, guiding him exactly where he wants him. This kiss feels like someone throwing themselves off a precipice, all instinct and heat and desperation.

“Is this okay?” Patrick pulls back.

“Yes, fuck yes. Patrick.” Suddenly _temporary_ doesn't matter as much to David. Patrick wants to stay. That’s enough. And if they only have a little while, he doesn’t want to waste a single second of it.

As Patrick’s mouth presses hot on his again, suddenly the lights flicker and then they are plunged in darkness.

Patrick says against his mouth, “The power went out.”

“I guess so.” David’s mind immediately goes to the candles, the way they all lit up.

Suddenly Patrick moves, pulling David up out of his chair. He tugs him by the hand into an even darker corner of the stacks, then pulls him close.

“I want you, David."

“Yes. Okay.” David’s response is a little breathless. He runs his hands up and down Patrick’s arms, his shoulders. The air is electric. Hopefully they won’t set the Erotica section on fire. Fuck, maybe they should.

Patrick’s mouth is hot on his throat as he begins working open the complex buttons on David’s pants. He can feel Patrick sucking a mark in his neck, and he wants that; he wants Patrick to brand him with his mouth, leave something indelible and unchanging and demonstrably _his_ , something Patrick can give him to remember him after he goes.

If he goes.

Patrick’s arm is firm around David’s waist, holding him in place, while his other hand gets the last button undone and slips inside. When his broad palm finally wraps around him, David can’t help keening with relief.

He bites back the sound and reaches out to fumble with Patrick’s belt and open the button of his jeans. David gets his hand around him as Patrick presses closer. He can feel the tension in his strong body, like a wire pulled taut. As David strokes and touches him, he can feel Patrick trembling slightly, and David greedily drinks in every gasp, every breath, every bitten back moan.

After that, it’s hard to track what happens, other than a base desire to close and fill the spaces between them, to find their place in this world, together.

When he hears Patrick gasp, feels him spill over his fingers, when David’s own orgasm seizes him and sends him over the edge, it feels better than any rushed and desperate hand job has the right to feel _—_ a tangled crash of heat and white-hot pleasure, but not just that; somehow, it’s also a little like coming home, like a light in the darkness, like a missing piece snapping into place.

Like magic.

* * *

They make their way out of the library in silence. David is thankful for the darkness. He’s in a post-orgasm daze and is desperately trying to stop himself from grinning like a maniac. Patrick is holding his hand and kind of tugging him along and David loves that, it’s like Patrick doesn’t want to let him go.

And he doesn’t want to go. He said so.

So really, aside from the whole interdimensional portal, the-universe-is-out-of balance aspect, David’s never had a—first date? Can he call it a date?—go so well. In fact, even _with_ that aspect it’s probably still way in the lead.

He thinks smugly that he’ll have to tell Stevie that Patrick is definitely not “smooth down there”; in fact, he’s packing something rather delightful down there. _The Joy of Uncircumcising,_ indeed.

Patrick leads them out the front door and then stops, tugging at David so they are both standing under the awning. Neither of them is dressed for the weather. It’s still pouring rain, and the sky is dark as night.

It’s all very gothic. If David weren’t feeling so fucking good right now he might be a little freaked out. But right now the worst feeling he can come up with is a concern for what the dash to the car will do to his carefully styled hair and his Givenchy.

He can see the Lincoln across the parking lot. They’ll just have to make a run for it. Then maybe in the car they can kiss a little bit more, maybe he can get Patrick’s shirt unbuttoned and get a closer look at what else he’s hiding under those boring clothes. (He’s still worried the clothes are due to the stale cardamom he had to borrow from Jocelyn’s spice cabinet.) Actually they should really head back to Patrick’s room at the motel; then they can really take their time...

There’s a flash of lightning, illuminating Patrick’s face, revealing a furrowed brow and a worried expression. The subsequent rumble of thunder is low and ominous. David feels a thrill of alarm. Patrick doesn’t look happy. Is he regretting what they just did?

“Should we go?” David says tentatively.

Patrick squeezes his hand and David can vaguely see the reassuring smile on his face. “If you give me the keys I’ll pull the car around. That way your hair and clothes remain unscathed.”

“Okay.” David feels warm at the thoughtfulness.

He digs in his pocket for the keys and hands them over. He watches as Patrick hurries toward the car, enjoying the way his legs and ass move in those tight jeans. He has plans for that ass and those legs.

His stomach rumbles, reminding him that it’s dinner time, just as Patrick stops to wait for a car driving through the parking lot. He ducks under the spreading branches of a tree, hands shoved in his pockets. David wonders if Patrick wants to get some dinner before they go back to the motel, since they’re already in Elmdale. _Just like a real date._

Suddenly he needs to know right now. “Patrick!”

Patrick turns and David beckons him back. Patrick points at the car, a question mark in his eyes, and David shakes his head and beckons with more intent.

Patrick runs back and David takes hold of his arms, over his rain-dampened shirt. “So, I was thinking,” he says. “There’s a Thai place around here that I’ve heard good things about. What do you say?”

Patrick gives him a little exasperated smile. “David, couldn’t you have waited and asked me this—”

Just then, lightning flashes, a jagged spear of light, and there is a loud crack, louder than a gunshot. Then there is billowing smoke everywhere, as Patrick pushes David against the wall, covering him with his body. David instinctively clutches at Patrick’s shoulders and watches in disbelief as the tree Patrick was just standing under topples to the ground.

* * *

“I think you saved my life,” Patrick says.

They are safely back in Patrick’s motel room. David is still buzzing that Patrick’s first instinct was to cover David’s body protectively with his own. Has David ever been with anyone who thinks of him first like that? Sebastien would have shoved him into oncoming traffic just to avoid a hangnail.

“Do you think it’s connected to—the magic? Like the plague of frogs when Boyce filed his change of address?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No. Definitely not.”

“Are you sure? Because if being here is going to—put you in danger, that’s not—I want you to be safe.”

Patrick looks stubborn. “I am safe. Because of you. You called me back and that’s why I wasn’t under the tree when it fell.”

“Because I was craving pad see ew! Not because I had a premonition, or whatever.”

“Regardless, I’m here, and I’m fine, I’m safe, and it’s because of you, David.”

“But what if I’m not there next time?” David twists his hands in his lap.

Patrick takes hold of his hands. Everything about him is comforting. How is everything so weird? “I’m fine, David. This is like that movie.”

“What movie?”

“The Wedding Planner. When Matthew McConaughey rescues Sandra Bullock from getting run over.”

“Jennifer Lopez,” David corrects him.

Patrick shakes his head. “No. It’s definitely Sandra Bullock in my universe.”

“What?” David gasps. He likes Jennifer Lopez a lot, but Sandy with Matthew McConaughey…

He demands, “Tell me every movie Sandra Bullock has done in your universe.”

“Well, let’s see. Of course, there’s Dunkirk.”

_“What?”_

“Miss Congeniality and the two sequels—”

 _“Two_ sequels!”

Patrick tugs him closer and kisses him. “The Lake House. The Proposal.”

“Okay, well, at least those are the same.”

Patrick presses David down on the bed and crawls on top of him. He kisses him again. “And of course, Erin Brockovich II: Legal Weapon.”

David says breathlessly between kisses, “Okay, no. First of all, Julia—”

Patrick cuts him off with another kiss. “Julia wasn’t available for the sequel. So they offered it to Sandy”—he grinds his hips down against David—“and she knocked it out of the park.”

“Okay, no. Baseball...and Sandra…do not mix.”

“But what about A League of Their Own, David? She was in that too. I think she’s kind of a fan.”

“That’s not—” But now Patrick has his mouth fastened on David’s neck, and David abandons the argument in favor of attacking the buttons on Patrick’s blue shirt, and then when he’s dealt with those he needs to get rid of the jeans next, and by the time that’s done he’s far too preoccupied to think about anything else.

Afterward, they are cuddled up together, David’s head resting on Patrick’s chest. David feels pleasantly warm and cozy, like he could stay here forever. But Patrick didn’t invite him to sleep over, and this—thing, whatever is happening between them, is so new and precious that he doesn’t want to assume. He tries to get up, but Patrick just holds him closer and whispers, “Stay.”

David stays.

* * *

After that, David spends more than a few nights—an entire week’s worth—wrapped in the blissful comfort of Patrick’s arms.

Which is why when he rolls over before the sun is even up he finds an endearingly sleep-mussed Patrick frowning at his iPhone screen, muttering, “Now that’s the real magic.”

“Did you say something?” David asks blearily, startling Patrick into dropping his phone from where he’s holding it aloft and narrowly missing his own nose.

“Hmm. What? Oh. Yeah. I did. Sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.” Patrick sounds distracted and David is impatient to lure him back to languid cuddling, their pre-alarm ritual. If something is going to distract Patrick, he would like it to be him.

“We’ve talked about the work-life-snuggle balance,” David tells the crest of Patrick’s collarbone after he presses a kiss to it. “What could be so important?”

Patrick is quiet for a moment. Too quiet. “It’s just—the grant was approved.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It really...flew through the red tape.”

They are both quiet. David clears his throat. “You know, there are a lot of things I need to learn still. I’m a—I’m a pretty bad student.”

“You are definitely not a bad student.”

“Well, you’re a bad teacher, then. Because I think I’ve forgotten just about everything you told me.”

Patrick smiles at him. “David, you didn’t really need my help. You’re very capable. I’m sure you would have found a way.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” If it were, what did he need magic for?

“It is, though.”

Patrick seems so sure that David doesn’t want to argue. He lays his head back down on Patrick’s chest, where he can feel that Patrick’s heart is hammering.

But Patrick's voice is calm as he says, “We’ll talk about it later, okay? We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. Now please go back to sleep. I’ll open the store.” Patrick kisses David’s hair and then slips out of bed.

David rolls onto his back to watch him go into the bathroom. He hears the shower turn on. He is attempting to quiet the thudding in his own chest.

_We have plenty of time._

He wants that to be true.

* * *

When David wakes up the second time, everything is quiet. He feels more relaxed now, curled up on Patrick’s bed, where the paltry thread count is more than made up for by the way it smells like vanilla and citrus and Patrick.

David feels warm, remembering Patrick saying _you’re capable,_ so matter-of-factly, like it was never a question.

He tries that word on for size. _Capable._

A series of images flash through his head. Finding all those vendors and persuading them to sign up with him...making them feel like partners...negotiating with Tricia...upselling customers...designing the look of the store, the logo...coming up with the idea to begin with.

He did that.

So...yeah. Capable. He can believe that. He _does_ believe that. And maybe he could have done this alone. But maybe...maybe he doesn’t care. He has nothing to prove. Just because he could have doesn’t mean it would have been better that way. Having Patrick here, working with him—it makes him feel like they are building something together, and he’s never felt that before. A partnership.

It’s kind of a beautiful feeling, to think he doesn't _need_ Patrick’s help, but he _wants_ it, and he knows, with a deep bedrock certainty, that he has it.

He hears a low rumble, and at first David takes it for thunder, because he can still hear the rain. But then the rumble grows louder and louder, and it seems to be _right outside._ It’s terrifying.

Then it stops abruptly.

He creeps to the window and peeks out between the curtains. He blinks. There is a hole. A very large hole that wasn’t there before.

What the _fuck._

The word _sinkhole_ pops into his head. This is a sinkhole.

He stops freaking out for a moment, pleased to have come up with the name. If it has a name, it’s a normal thing, and not some weird magical anomaly telling him that the universe is out of balance. Or that his lovely...interdimensional closet-person business consultant slash lover has to leave.

He goes back to his room to get ready for work. By the time he leaves, it seems to have stopped raining, but the sky is still dark and threatening, so David brings an umbrella. The air outside seems charged. David averts his eyes from the sinkhole as he turns his steps to Rose Apothecary.

It’s a fifteen minute walk to the store. He’s been walking about five minutes when the wind starts making a curious sound behind him, like a fluttering of leaves. But when he turns around, he sees something straight from the bowels of hell.

Moths. Lots of them. A _swarm_.

He freezes, and then registers that the swarm seems to be heading _straight_ for him, as if it’s _targeting_ him, like one of his nightmares come to life. He turns and runs as fast as he can toward the store, full of one thought and one thought only: get to Patrick and safety.

He’s not a runner, but terror can move mountains and, apparently, David Rose. He loses his umbrella and his bag somewhere on the way, and he definitely doesn’t stop at the street corner to look both ways, the moths are _so close,_ and before he realizes what’s happening he hears an ear-shattering series of honks, the squealing of brakes, and then a whoosh of air as a car swerves off the road, missing him by inches. He doesn’t pause, though, intent on opening the door to the store and stumbling inside.

He slams the door behind him and leans with his back pressed against it, breathing heavily as he attempts to form a single coherent thought to fling in Patrick’s general direction.

“David? What’s going on?”

“M—moth. Moths. Lots of moths. Then...car.”

Patrick leaps into action then, hurrying across the room to wrap a comforting arm around David’s shoulders and lead him away from the glass door and out of the line of fire. Flying. Whatever.

“Was that what the honking was about? Are you okay?”

David thinks he might be hyperventilating. “No.”

“Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Patrick asks, touching David's face lightly. He guides him behind the register, toward what they’re beginning to consider David’s fainting chair.

It’s possible he can still hear the _flit flit flit_ of a million tiny moth wings. But before he can seek refuge in Patrick’s arms, the door bursts open.

Ronnie enters, quickly followed by Ray. David cowers behind the counter in case any of his mothy assailants decide to cross the threshold with them.

“Another week’s worth of newspaper is gone, Thumbkin,” she says.

Patrick’s fingers curl on David’s back. “Now isn’t the time, Ronnie, David almost—” He looks down at David. “You’re okay, right? Physically? Maybe I should drive you to Elmdale now and get you checked out.”

An ebullient Ray interjects. “Oh, no can do, Patrick. The highway has been washed out. It’s actually quite the scene all over the county. Speaking of which, do you two sell flotation devices?”

Patrick glances helplessly down at David. David is sure his horror at this idea is visible on his face, despite also being mid-cardiac event. “No, Ray, we don’t.”

“Wonderful. Well, not wonderful for you, but for me. I was hoping I would have the market cornered on pool supplies.”

“Pool supplies?” Ronnie asks, dubious. The nearest pool is in Elm Valley.

“Ah, yes. I have it in mind to capitalize on the natural springs that miraculously appeared on the motel’s lawn this morning and no pool is complete without its noodles and such.” Ray makes jazz hands. 

Patrick shoots David a quizzical look and before either of them can inquire further, the door jingles signaling the arrival of both Ted and Roland.

“I just saw the coolest formation of Lepidoptera outside,” Ted says. “I mean, I always thought moths were nocturnal but I can’t wait to report this to the folks at the Lepidopterists' Society. They’re really going to _fly_ off the handle.”

Ronnie rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, doc, do magic moths count in your tally? I think this phenomenon was brought to you courtesy of your little dimension-travelling friend over there.”

David didn’t know what the expression _pleased as punch_ looked like until he saw Ted’s face.

“Oh thanks bud! Would you consider bringing some bees next time, just for the sake of our fragile ecosystem?”

Patrick sputters, “I didn’t—this isn’t—I can’t bring _bees._ ”

Roland interjects, “No, don’t bring bees unless you absolutely have to. Joce is allergic. But I saw what happened out there, David, and I just want to make sure you don’t plan on suing the town for attempted murder. We cannot afford another lawsuit.”

“What?” Patrick’s pale brows launch straight into his hairline. “David, what actually happened?”

Roland recounts the entire incident in horrifying detail and it brings all the simmering terror roaring right back to the surface. So much so that Patrick actually kicks all the onlookers out of the store so he can properly attend to David without their interference.

Once they’re alone again, Patrick wraps himself around him, rubbing soothingly at his back. He seems almost as agitated as David is.

“I’m sorry, David.”

David clings to him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t know about that.” He squeezes David more tightly.

“You said—these are just coincidences, right? Things that are happening that have nothing to do with—nothing to do with—”

“Yeah. I know I said that. But I can’t put you—if me staying here had anything to do with what happened to you today—”

David pulls his head down and kisses him. “I refuse to believe you are responsible for moths. You and moths have nothing to do with each other.”

Patrick laughs a little against his mouth, but when he pulls back, his face is serious. “I need to find out what is going on, but I don’t want you to be alone. Can Stevie or Alexis come here to keep you company?”

“What are you going to do?”

David can see Patrick’s jaw pulse. “I need to figure this out, and if there’s a way to fix it. If there is, I’ll find it.”


	3. Chapter 3

If there is anyone who can fix whatever wildly inconvenient phenomenon is occurring in Schitt’s Creek, it is Patrick. Although David has severe doubts there is a YouTube video available for Do-It-Yourself Magical Rift repair. (How much duct tape is too much duct tape, and why does David know what duct tape is?)

It’s been almost twelve hours since Patrick made his last determined declaration, and David makes his way to the Love Room, where Patrick has instructed him to go. He opens the door to find all its available flat surfaces covered in lit candles he recognizes from the store. His store. Their store. Candles line the shelves and desk and nightstands, but looking around, Patrick is nowhere to be found.

David checks his phone again. No. This is where Patrick said to meet him: _back where we started. I have something I want to show you._

Granted, there are probably a thousand places around town now that could be considered where they started, the store included, but that’s something David is still getting used to. How they’ve managed to create a history in this short time. One he doesn’t want to revise, no matter what the outcome.

Even from the doorway, the air is filled with a familiar combination of scents.

It feels like walking into his own brain (no, his brain would not contain cheap satin or a ceiling mirror, off-kilter universe aside) or maybe it’s more like walking into his heart.

These are all scents of things that David loves. Leather, like the scent of moisturizer he uses to keep his skin supple so Patrick will touch it. There’s sandalwood and tonka bean and coffee, too. Maybe cherry blossom?

He walks tentatively toward the bed, hoping Patrick is somehow hidden amongst the polyester lumps masquerading as pillows. He’s not.

Instead, David is surrounded by sense memories that he’s only shared with Patrick in passing. While they stocked shelves, he waxed nostalgic about the trips he used to take to Japan. The food and the temples and the blooming cherry blossoms, and how at home he felt there. It’s notes from the cologne David wore that day in the library and the caramel macchiatos Patrick has brought him daily and the nutty fragrance of his favorite incense.

The room isn’t that large and David gets more nervous as he runs out of corners to check, so he shoots Patrick a quick _where are u_ text.

From the closet, he hears the familiar buzz of a phone notification.

He opens the door and finds Patrick sitting cross-legged on the floor, Dior sleeves and shirttails acting as an arrow pointing down at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Patrick responds. He is maybe the most dejected David has ever seen him. David’s heart wrenches in his chest.

“So this seems...very romantic, up until the game of hide-and-seek, but then again, even that has potential.” David does a little shimmy of reassurance. “Are you in there communicating with your home planet?”

“No,” Patrick says, grim-faced, before he scoots over to make room for David.

David pretzels himself into the space as best as he can and ends up mostly in Patrick’s lap. It’s nice. “Hello again. This carpet is despicable.”

“We don’t have to stay down here, David. There’s a perfectly good mirrored ceiling out there we can stare into morbidly.”

“You know, in weighing the decorative atrocities, I think we’re better off right where we are. Although I do have concerns about the raging fire we may set with unattended burning candles.” He catches Patrick’s eye as best he can. “I feel like you might have had a different plan than this when you started.”

Patrick scoffs under his breath. “Yeah, I was hoping I’d have the fatalistic pout over with before you got here.”

“Hmm, that was my fault for being on time. Not a precedent I’ve set. So how close to finished do you think you are?” David asks evenly. He wants Patrick to have what he needs. Even if it’s time to grieve. God, he hopes that isn’t what this is. “No rush.”

Patrick is quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry, David.” Patrick hands David a familiar piece of parchment. His scroll from the spell. “I took this out to the farm witches to see if they could help.”

David studies the paper because it’s too hard to look at Patrick. “What did they say?”

Obviously the answer is Patrick-sitting-on-a-closet-floor-worthy so he isn’t sure why he’s even asking.

“Hmm. Mostly they confirmed Ronnie’s suspicion that I’m overstaying my universal welcome. Apparently the Gateway can’t really hold when the spell attaches to people.”

“The Gateway? That’s a little on the nose.”

“Maybe hold off on rebranding just yet.” Patrick frowns. “Because then as I was leaving, Philomena handed me this.” He reaches into the shadowy corner and passes something fluffy to David.

“This is a needlepoint pillow.”

“Yes it is.” Patrick says darkly. Needlepoint is objectively depressing but even more so when it reads: _Balance is only restored when one lets go of the things they hold tightly._

“Wow. Now that is…”

“Yeah.”

“It’s fucked.”

“It means we have to—”

“—let each other go. It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Patrick's voice is just a thread of sound as he reaches out to squeeze David’s knee. “I’m sorry, David.”

David is tired of sorry. Not from Patrick, but from... _waves hand._ “Well, I hope you’re not opposed to me looking for a time travel spell to get you back here. Or one so I can join you in your dimension to open Rose Apothecary 2.0. Expansion should be next on our list.”

“I’d love that, David.” Patrick leans his head lightly against David’s for a moment, a gentle nudge of acknowledgement. “And I might not have to leave tonight. I just think...soon.”

“Soon,” David repeats as if it’s a consolation. He’ll take every second he can get, but it’s like having a ticking clock held over their heads. He hates this. “Of all the closets in all the towns, you had to walk out of this one.”

Patrick inhales sharply and bleats out a laugh. “This is really more of a step-in closet, if I’m being honest.”

It feels good to break the tension, to see the way Patrick’s eye crinkles when he smiles. David leans over and kisses the tiny half-moon of a scar that perches under Patrick’s brow. David doesn’t want to be the mark of something that hurt Patrick. If he’s the one who brought him here, he needs to be able to let him leave.

Patrick looks at David. “Do you have the watch? Just in case?”

David has been carrying it around, keeping it safe, worried if he left it out someone would pick it up and accidentally zap Patrick back to his universe through some kind of interdimensional pneumatic bank tube. “Yeah.”

Patrick holds his hand out as if to receive it and David shakes his head.

“Maybe the issue is that there’s something I still need to do for you,” David says, still not willing to concede. He’s been worried about this since the beginning. The reconciliation of debts owed. He sees the pained expression on Patrick’s face and he feels like he’s already paying. “I mean, balance, right?”

Patrick’s face does something illogically fond. “David, you...you’ve done so much for me already.”

“Ah but I have definitely been withholding both fashion and decorating advice.”

“Not really,” Patrick says, and David sniffs in agreement, still clutching the farm witches’ pillow to his chest. He never would have recommended an accessory with a sentiment so dark.

“Okay but—”

Patrick shakes his head. “Okay but let’s finish the date I planned. That’s what you can do for me.”

They heave themselves off of the floor and after tossing the farm witch’s pillow onto the bed, they stumble into each other’s arms, pretending that _one last time_ isn’t written in every kiss. Patrick’s tongue is warm and insistent against the seam of David’s mouth, unspoken words suddenly articulated with each press of his lips.

Both of their cheeks are wet when they pull apart and Patrick thumbs a tear off of David’s cheekbone, kissing him lightly on the hinge of his jaw. “Thank you, David.”

Now that they’re not stuffed inside the recesses of a closet, David notices that Patrick is wearing his darkest button-up, his darkest jeans. His version of dressed up, of date-worthy. He looks delectable. Instead of devouring him, David settles for looping his arm through Patrick’s and letting him lead. Patrick likes that.

Patrick kisses his cheek again softly and gestures like a game show host to the array of candles before them. They’re actually warming the room, despite the ongoing deluge of rain outside and the cold ache in David’s chest.

“For you, I have chosen vetiver, because it’s close to leather, and it’s strong like you, and polished.”

David nods and tries to deny the prickling of new tears behind his eyes.

“And then there is sandalwood and rosewood, because well,” Patrick says with a little _of course_ gesture. “But sandalwood is expensive and it’s calming—”

“No one in the history of the planet, no matter the dimension, has ever described me as calming,” David interrupts, feeling like the height of uncalm. Even his hair is vibrating right now.

Patrick stills him with a look. A Patrick look. A familiar look. “To me, you are.”

“Oh.”

“And then there’s the cherry blossoms because they’re elegant and exacting and—”

Patrick can’t finish because David is kissing him.

“I’m sorry, did you not like the cherry blossoms? Because I didn’t even get to the tonka beans and they’re supposed to be the aphrodisiacs,” Patrick teases as David peppers his face with small kisses in between the larger, more mouth-occupying ones.

“Hmm, no, I am enjoying all of this very much. Too much.”

“Oh, okay, I was hoping you would.” Patrick sounds so pleased, so awed that it cracks something open in David’s chest.

Then there’s an enormous crash of thunder and the motel actually shudders under the next torrent of rain and hail. Wind howls.

They share a rueful look, one tinged with sorrow, and then David steps forward and captures Patrick’s mouth in a kiss.

After a few minutes, Patrick guides David to the bed and strips him out of his clothing. David lets him take the lead, which he seems to do naturally, making David feel so cared for, so seen, so cherished.

 _Don’t think of it as goodbye sex._ Patrick’s skin is warm underneath his hands, and David is touching him and kissing him all over, he can’t get enough; at the same time Patrick’s hands and mouth are everywhere, stroking him, kissing, licking, finding the places David wants to be touched most; then finally Patrick presses David down on the bed, covering him, their bodies lined up; they find their rhythm and and move together, slowly, surely, with steadily building heat, and it spiral and spirals, higher and higher.

 _Don’t think of it as goodbye sex_ , David tells himself, but he can’t help it, and when he comes he shakes and shakes until he feels like he is shaking apart.

Afterward, they lie in each other’s arms, exhausted. With Patrick wrapped around him, David feels safe; and now he knows the feeling is returned. It’s a far cry from the first time they were in this room together when David almost curled Patrick’s lashes in self-defense, scared out of his wits.

 _You need to stay_ , David thinks, and then says out loud, to an almost sleeping Patrick, squeezing the hand resting at his hip. David hopes one day he’ll appreciate the irony in how magic helped him finally find something real.

* * *

They doze. David is cuddled against Patrick’s chest, his feet tucked between Patrick’s thick calves to warm them. He isn’t sure how much time has passed; besides the steady drone of rain outside, it feels like the world is holding its breath, letting them have this time, this night.

After an hour or maybe two or maybe ten, Patrick finally speaks. And it’s in a pitch perfect British accent. “Thank you for letting me fall asleep with you,” he says, apropos of nothing.

David has heard that exact sentence, in that exact tone, for months. “Have you been listening to my Harry Styles sleep app?”

“No.” Patrick is quiet for long enough David thinks he might have been talking in his sleep. “No. I’ve been listening to _my_ Harry Styles sleep app.”

“Yeah?” David starts to prop his head up so he can read Patrick’s expression but he thinks better of it. “You use a sleep app?”

“Not so much anymore but yeah, before. I used to listen to it every night.”

“Before? Before you did the spell?” David does look at Patrick then. “I thought you told me Zayn had the standout solo career from One D...oh my god, you’ve been fucking with me.”

“I really thought when I told you I was dressed by cartoon birds every morning that it would have clued you in on the teasing but, kinda, yeah. It just...it made you so happy, even when I could tell it was making you kind of…”

“Seethe with interdimensional jealousy? You’re a monster. I would have loved to have seen Sandy in the Wedding Planner. So, there _is_ only one sequel to Miss Congeniality?”

“David I have no idea if there are any sequels to Miss Congeniality. I was just stabbing in the dark with that one.” A candle flickers. “Anyway. While I’m coming clean. I only know three actual Sandra Bullock movies.”

“Happy to provide a thorough education and rec list,” David says, running a hand over the plane of Patrick’s chest and the light hairs gathered there.

“I know you are.” Patrick continues, “Also I’m a terrible negotiator. Like, why won’t people just do what I say?”

“Mmm. Well. I think you mean, ‘why won’t people do what I ask’ but. I like how flustered you get when people won’t.”

“Okay, that just shatters all the illusions that I know what I’m doing and—” Patrick pauses. “David, I did that spell because I had no idea what I was doing with my life.”

“I mean, none of us do. I think that’s why magic exists.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it didn’t matter to me what the spell even was for—I didn’t read anything but the ingredients. David, do you know the last time I didn’t read an instruction manual from front to back?”

Based on David’s current experience, never. Patrick even labels the little diagrams with his own numbering system. _For cohesion_ , he says.

“Hm, no, that doesn’t sound like you.”

“No. But I—I was ready for a change and I knew if I didn’t make one right then, I probably wouldn’t have ever made one.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“I am too.”

David cuddles closer.

“Do you know what I admire most about you?” Patrick says, stroking a hand down David’s bicep.

“I’d like to think it’s my charm, wit, intelligence, and physique, but it’s probably my hair, isn’t it? Or my skin? I work very hard on my skin.”

“Okay, I know you’re joking,” Patrick says. David isn’t joking. “But I love that it doesn’t really matter to you what other people think. What they expect. You don’t...you do what matters to you.”

“I cannot help that I have very correct opinions, Patrick.”

“Yeah you do.” Patrick studies him for a moment. “Before I came here, everybody else decided what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. Not even purposely. I just...I wanted to be what everyone else wanted me to be. I like being in charge. I like people counting on me. I don’t have to...no one wonders if the guy with the clipboard and the whistle—“

“Please tell me this is a figurative whistle.”

“It is. Although coaching one day—anyway. No one wonders if the guy in charge has it all together because on the outside—”

“He looks like he has it all together,” David finishes. He may be intimately familiar with this approach.

“Even if it wasn’t the spell, I wanted to be a person you needed,” Patrick says, low. “I wanted to impress you.”

“You are. You do.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, but a flush rises in his cheeks. He looks gratified.

“But,” David says, feeling his way, wanting to get this right. “That’s not why—that’s not why I like you. You don’t have to be some knight in shining invoicing systems, for me to like you.”

Patrick glances up at him, and for a moment his expression is so vulnerable it makes David catch his breath. He cups his hand around the back of Patrick’s neck and pulls him in, capturing his mouth in a kiss. Patrick’s mouth opens eagerly and David explores with his tongue, keeping control.

Patrick moans a little and leans closer, his body pliant, melding against David’s.

David’s thoughts are tangled but they start to coalesce around one thought, one idea. Patrick is so strong; it’s one of the first things he noticed, one of the first things that attracted him. David never thought he could be the one to do something for him. But now—he thinks he can see a way to help him, to give Patrick something to take back with him. He can show him that he doesn’t have to be the strong one all the time, the capable one, the generous one. That he’s perfect and incredible and worthy even when he’s confused or messy or selfish.

David scoots down so he can get closer, pushing Patrick onto his back and climbing on top of him. His hand drifts down and wraps gently around Patrick’s cock. He is already growing hard.

“Okay, so. When I touch you, or suck you off, or fuck you, what do you expect?”

Patrick inhales sharply. His cock twitches in David’s hand. “I think...I’ll like it?”

“I mean, yes, I want that for you too. Always. But what do you expect? As an outcome, even.”

“Ah.” Patrick closes his eyes, like that might help cut off some of the blood rushing to his dick. “I expect you’ll make me come. Fast, probably. Like.” He moans softly, even though David is only holding him lightly, fingers loose. “I expect I’ll come.”

David bends to kiss the head of Patrick’s cock where it peeks out from his foreskin. Patrick is so sensitive there and he writhes as David’s lips brush against him.

“But what...” David runs his tongue along the slit, barely grazing it, but the contact still results in Patrick grinding against the mattress and giving another weighted sigh. His fingers curl in the sheets. “What if you didn’t expect to come?”

Patrick’s breath is speeding up. He’s intrigued, David can see. “Surprise orgasms are fun too. I’ll take all the coming, David. Come one, come all.”

David laughs. God, he likes him so much.

“Will you let me take care of you, Patrick?” he whispers. “Please?”

David feels Patrick’s cock respond to that, twitching and growing harder still under his hand. But Patrick’s expression is a little uncertain. He bites his lip.

David doesn’t know if Patrick realizes how sexy he is.

David lets go of Patrick’s cock and rests his hand on Patrick’s stomach, stroking over the little treasure trail under his belly button. He wants this to be Patrick’s choice.

“I want you to,” Patrick says suddenly. “Take care of me. Make me...not come. Or you know. Not expect it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”

There’s no headboard on this travesty of a bed, so David has Patrick lie flat, and tells him to stretch his arms out, palms down against the mattress. “Keep them like that, okay?”

Patrick nods.

David makes sure he knows to say red, or yellow, or green, and Patrick huffs and says, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Let’s get started, David.”

David gives him his most knowing smile, and leans in to whisper in his ear. “See, you keep acting like you’re in charge here, but you’re not.”

A tremor runs through Patrick’s body, and David leans in to drag kisses down his neck, then starts working down his body.

Patrick starts to cry out in little moans and gasps as David gets closer to his cock, and David drinks in every one of those noises. Then he can hear that Patrick is pressing his lips together to muffle the sound, and David raises his head.

He crawls up Patrick’s body and plants his hands on either side of his head so he can look down into his eyes. “Don’t you dare bite back those gorgeous sounds you’re making. I need to hear you,” he says. “How else will I know when you’re close?”

“Okay.” Patrick nods. "Okay." His hands clutch at the sheets, but then he presses his palms flat again.

David gives him a quick kiss, then goes back to lavishing his body with attention, taking his time, careful to explore every bit of him except his cock. Patrick is moaning and saying _yes_ and _fuck_ and repeating David’s name; and when David finally gets Patrick’s cock in his mouth and a finger in his gorgeous ass, he makes a noise so loud that David fears the neighbors will hear—but then again, the neighbors are mostly Stevie.

David pulls off his leaking cock and strokes at the crease of his thigh where it meets his hip. Patrick gasps and flails a little at the cessation of pressure and movement.

“Is this when you would expect to come?” David asks.

“David.” Patrick always says his name like it’s an emotion unto itself, like his name has just as much meaning as any declaration of feelings. “David. Yes.”

“And you’re okay if I still don’t let you come? Because you’re doing an amazing job, letting me take you apart. I could do this for days, you’re so good at this.”

Patrick makes a noise that is both wounded and ragged, but then says, “Yes, more. Please.”

David can see Patrick is pushing himself, and his heart expands painfully in his chest. He lunges up to give Patrick a kiss on his flushed cheek. “You’re so good, you’re doing so well.”

He focuses on Patrick’s face, on the noises he’s making, on the sweet clench of his thighs, as he uses his hands and mouth and tongue to bring him to the edge, again and again. Finally, David is between Patrick’s legs, one well-lubed finger inside him while he uses another to tease at Patrick’s rim. Then he works up to two fingers and crooks them to stroke along his prostate, until Patrick is squirming and crying out. David leans over to lick slowly along the underside of Patrick’s cock, and he can feel Patrick is close to coming just from this, from the press of his fingers and a light touch of tongue. Then he pulls back entirely, sitting up, and Patrick lets out an agonized sound of protest.

David works his way up Patrick’s body again, kissing and sucking lightly until he reaches his plush mouth.

Patrick gropes at David’s shoulders, uncoordinated, not taking his eyes off of David. He tugs on the back of David’s neck, trying to bring him in for a kiss.

“What’s your color, honey?” David whispers.

“Green. David. I’m green.” His voice is hoarse, tone edged with desperation. “I’m just—” He’s still trying to pull David toward him.

David tugs Patrick’s hands away. “Shh. You need to let me handle this now. Spread out your arms again, and look up.”

If this horrific ceiling mirror has to exist, he’s glad it’s there for Patrick. For both of them.

“Okay David.” The words are agreeable, the tone less so. But he does it.

David lays beside Patrick, curls around him, kissing him slowly and rubbing sweet circles onto his chest. Patrick is shaking. He’s an absolute wreck. David pulls back, hand under Patrick’s chin. “Look at us,” he commands softly. “What do you see?”

David turns his head so he can see what Patrick sees.

Patrick is slick with sweat, his hair is in tufts from where he’s been tugging it, and there are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His skin is mottled pink with the start of bruises from holding him in place, marks sucked as Patrick squirmed contentedly beneath David’s lips and teeth and tongue. He has never been more exquisite.

David watches as all this registers on Patrick’s expressive face, slowly and with some effort. The line of his mouth starts out tense, slightly annoyed, and very horny, but then then morphs into something vulnerable, maybe a little frightened, and then finally...he just looks...satisfied, no, happy. Happy and also—free.

“David,” Patrick rasps, grasping for David’s face but not taking his eyes off their reflection. When David shifts, he notices a scratch on his own back and a bruise Patrick sucked onto his shoulder while David ruthlessly brought him to the edge and then pulled him back, time after time. They are both a mess. Patrick continues, “David, fuck. We’re...” he falters slightly. “We’re perfect.”

“Yes,” David breathes, pressing a chaste kiss to Patrick’s jaw before aiming for his lips again, less chaste. “Yes, we are.”

A beat.

“So will you make me come now?” Very on-task, that Patrick Brewer, but David appreciates it. “I mean, when you’re ready.”

“That can be arranged.”

As he touches him, David keeps talking, spilling the words out, _you can be all those things with me, all those things you said_ — _clipboard, whistle...maybe not the whistle...helpless to my charms, you can be magical, you can be human, just be Patrick,_ while also telling Patrick to keep his eyes open, keep looking. Then David gets his hand around him and says “Watch yourself, honey, watch yourself come,” and Patrick _screams_ and comes and comes and comes.

David covers him with his body and thrusts against him, and he’s so wound up that it’s just a few strokes before he’s coming too and he’s kissing Patrick’s face and it’s salty with tears and he’s not sure if it’s Patrick or him that’s crying, or if it’s both of them together.

It’s intense. Of course it’s intense. Everything with Patrick has been intense.

“Oh fuck,” Patrick sighs, body spent. He’s having a hard time lifting his eyelids, let alone his head. “David. You. I. I came.”

“You did. Thank you for letting me do that with you.”

Patrick rubs clumsily at the mess smeared on his abdomen and shivers. “I think my body thinks I’m still coming, to be honest. Is that a thing?”

“Ah, aftershocks. Here, let me,” David says, careful to arrange Patrick’s limbs under the blankets so he can stay warm while David goes to get a towel to clean him up.

He returns with the towel and a bottle of water. He cleans him up gently and then holds the bottle to Patrick’s lips and watches him drink, petting his shoulders soothingly and whispering praise. “I love watching you let go.”

Patrick doesn’t argue, just looks at him with his lashes clumped with tears and his eyes shining even more than usual in the candlelight.

“Thank you, David. That was—I—you—” Patrick seems to give up on forming words and just rubs affectionately at David’s knee. David retrieves his t-shirt and underwear and helps Patrick put them back on, since his limbs don’t seem to be cooperating.

“You were amazing, honey.” David presses a kiss to his forehead before heading back to the bathroom to drop off the towel and wash his hands. He comes out, blows out the candles, and finds his own underwear and a soft pair of joggers to put on.

Patrick has buried his face into their new weird parting gift from the farm witches, which managed to migrate its way up the bed. He lifts his head to look at it, still wobbly. “Look,” he says, waving it at David. “Letting go. I say we nailed it.”

“Mmkay. What about letting go of that disgusting pillow?” David comes over to take the pillow and tosses it aside. It hits the bedside table and they hear something clatter.

“What was that?” Patrick says.

David picks up the pillow. Underneath he sees the pocket watch, fallen open face down. “It’s the watch.”

“Oh.”

They share a look, and David leans over to pick it up, gingerly. It’s open and he doesn’t want to accidentally push the—

His heart stops.

There’s no button.

“What?” Patrick says, seeing the expression on David’s face.

“Look.” David turns it around to show him.

The watch now has identical balance scales on both sides of the watch. The button has disappeared.

David feels a rush of hope so intense it makes him dizzy. He looks at Patrick and he can see he’s thinking the same thing.

Patrick cocks his head, listening. “David. I think maybe it’s stopped raining.”

They both jump off the bed and scramble over to the door, tripping over each other in their haste. Patrick opens it and they look out.

It’s dark. Everything is wet and the ground is muddy, but it’s not raining. And when they look up, the sky is full of stars.

Patrick’s arm sneaks around David’s waist. David leans against him as they both take in the vastness of the night sky, the stars stretching off in all directions. The night air is pleasant, fresh after the rain. They’re both half dressed, standing in a doorway where anyone could see them. But David isn’t in a hurry to move. Not anymore. They have all the time in the universe.

* * *

David wakes to delicate rays of sunlight threading their way through truly tasteless curtains, a snoring and still very present Patrick huddled close to his chest.

It is rare that David is first to rise, but obviously, he’s seen stranger things. He starts to slip out from under Patrick so he can brush his teeth and make his hair presentable before kissing Patrick into his day, but he thinks better of it. Patrick has already seen him at his worst, the first day they met. A little bedhead won’t send him screaming away.

“Hi,” Patrick rasps with a sleep-warm tone, still blinking his way into wakefulness. He has a little crust of drool on the corner of his lip and he’s the most beautiful thing David has ever seen. “Hey, I’m still here.”

“Hmm, your beam of light seems to have...refracted.” David remarks, conjuring up the one bit of grade five science he can remember.

Patrick rubs his eyes. “And we aren’t like...in a netherworld? Am I going to have to sing for the release of your soul?”

“I mean. Maybe?” David kisses Patrick’s worried face. “I think the universal siege may be over.”

Patrick props himself on an elbow so he can pull David closer. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Well, as it turns out, the one way to find out involves exiting their bed and that is a bridge too far. They spend most of the morning making out lazily, appreciating one another’s continued presence with lips and tongues and hands. Being together now doesn’t feel cautious or tentative; it doesn’t feel fragile like it had when they thought they might lose it. As Patrick kisses and strokes and holds him, David knows it’s ridiculous to feel like at this moment, his world has somehow been righted, or that the floor beneath him will no longer slant when he walks. But he feels it anyway, and he knows he isn’t alone.

Patrick is here. The spell may be broken, but the magic remains.

* * *

The bed has its own gravitational pull but David gets hungry and Patrick can’t stop speculating about all the things he thinks may have changed since the universe came back into balance.

He hands David his jacket so they can lock up. “What if Tricia is waiting for us at the store and she suddenly trusts numbers?”

“Okay, I don’t think any miracles took place.”

“I don’t know, David, look at this lush new lawn of yours.”

Patrick is right. The sinkhole is gone, replaced by grass so green, it sparkles emerald in the sun. Only _Ray’s Hut O’ Pool Noodles_ remains, the last evidence of the former sinkhole-slash-swimming hole wreckage.

David takes Patrick’s hand, nodding toward the wooden structure. “He operates with an eerie efficiency.”

“It’s impressive but someone ought to check _him_ for spellwork.”

“Not it,” David says.

It’s the kind of bright spring morning where the air feels imbued with hope and with possibility, so they take the long route to the store.

“Which one is Ronnie’s house?” Patrick asks, voice lined with trepidation like he’s expecting an ambush.

David points, smiling. “Can’t miss it.”

Ronnie’s house is easy to spot, perhaps from space, because at the end of her driveway sits a mound of newspapers that rivals any of the smaller Canadian mountain ranges.

“Well, I wasn’t even here that long!” Patrick says plaintively and sort of fits himself behind David’s shoulder. “That is a truly disproportionate amount of—whatever happened to balance?”

“Apparently the universe is also accounting for pain and suffering,” David teases.

“Hers or mine?”

Just then Ronnie emerges from her front door.

“Brewer! You better have brought your shovel with you! Where the hell am I supposed to put all these newspapers?”

“Sorry, Ronnie!” Patrick calls, then looks at David pleadingly. “She has to like wine, right? Or some of Tricia’s eucalyptus salves?”

“Maybe there are articles in those papers about conflict resolution so you two can work out your differences,” David suggests.

Patrick mumbles under his breath. “Let it go, Brewer. Let it go.”

David calls, “He’ll be back this afternoon to help, Ronnie, but we’re late to open the store right now.”

“David,” Patrick protests.

“What? We are late!”

“Not the issue,” Patrick mutters but he tucks himself under David’s arm for a quick hug as Ronnie shoos them away with a wave of her hands.

They walk another block or two before David stops suddenly and Patrick rams right into David’s back.

“Mmmph,” Patrick says, rubbing his nose gingerly.

“Sorry. I just…” David casts around with his eyes. “Do you hear that?”

Patrick looks at him strangely. “Hear what?”

“That is the sound of zero moths chasing me to my imminent demise.”

“Yeah, David, if you could hold off on the imminent demises, that would be aces. I need you here.” Of course Patrick can manage to make this sincere. That’s his magic.

David pulls Patrick’s face to his, hands wrapped around the nape of his neck, fingers pressing into soft skin. He inhales deeply, taking in Patrick’s warmth and strength and kindness before leaning in closer, lips barely brushing Patrick’s.

“I should have kissed you the second you peeked your head out of that closet,” he laments, only half-joking.

They’re too close together to read the expression on Patrick’s face but David feels the smile as it forms, taking shape under his mouth.

“Well. You still managed to make everything okay, so. I’ll let it go this time.”

“Ah, I did, didn’t I?” David kisses Patrick more firmly then, the weight of the last few days lifted with the promise of a future suddenly granted.

Patrick sinks into him and they kiss again, relieved and grateful and content with the universe. They stand in the street and kiss long enough to draw rounds of honking from passing cars, applause from a group of teenagers, and some low whistles of encouragement from Roland, of all people.

When David pulls away, Patrick’s eyes are glazed and he wordlessly points to the streetlights above them, blazing in the midday sun.

They look at each other and back at the lights, then burst into laughter.

“Those were on before, right?” Patrick asks, finally able to regain his breath.

“Yes. They’re stuck. Please don’t get Roland started. They’ve been like that since we moved here.” David feels his chest begin to fill with affection as Patrick moves back into his arms.

“Oh thank god.”

David is going to take this as the universe’s way of reminding them there is still magic to be found in ordinary things, too.

* * *

The scroll from their shared spell hangs in a place of honor next to the Rose Apothecary business license, in an extremely tasteful frame. Somehow, David asked for what he needed, and Patrick took a chance, and they both found more than they’d ever dreamed possible.

David stops to admire the scroll at least once a day and today, Patrick joins him.

There’s a space Patrick has carved out over the past two years, right in the hollow of David’s arms, and he pushes himself into it, warm and familiar and loved. His family has been visiting and it’s wonderful to have them, since interdimensional data rates have become a bit exorbitant lately. Twyla’s helping to balance their visiting spell in a little alternate universe exchange program and almost everyone in town has taken a turn. It turns out magic seems to have chosen all of them, at one point or another. Some may have just been harder to see.

They look at the spell that brought them to this little corner of the universe, in the store they have made thrive together. Their wedding bands clink against each other like an informal toast when Patrick slides his hand over David’s.

He’s smiling when he says, “Are you sure you want to keep reminding people that we almost destroyed the town with our love?”

“Every day, Patrick, every day.”


	4. Chapter 4

“All right,” David admits. “I’m glad we came.”

Patrick’s eyes are shining. He always acts like he is David’s personal tour guide to his previous universe, and seems to take pride in finding new and interesting things to show him. Even after five years of marriage, David still isn’t used to how much attention Patrick pays to his likes and dislikes, his interests and his pet peeves; and how Patrick carefully uses that information to craft gifts and dates and outings.

David likes coming to Patrick’s universe, when Twyla and the farm witches can make it happen. He likes spending time with Patrick’s parents and having a break from his own. He worried at first about how they would feel about the man who literally whisked their son away to another dimension, but Clint and Marcy have been nothing but welcoming. Patrick’s cousins are likewise mostly quite lovely people, and David and Patrick coming to this universe for a visit usually means at least one barbecue will happen.

He also likes to come here because there are, actually, interesting parallels between the two universes. Sandra Bullock, naturally, transcends all time and space, but they determined early on that there is no David Rose in this universe, no Rose Video, no Rose family at all. Nor is there another Patrick Brewer to be found in David’s universe. David feels little need to explore beyond Mariah and Oprah and his favorite rom-com leading ladies; if there is another Roland in this universe, David figures he is better off not knowing.

Patrick, though, is nothing if not a thorough researcher, and he takes pride in finding things unique to this universe, and showing them off to David like a television game show host. Today they are at an open air market called Sage Alchemy, one showcasing a variety of local vendors, that Patrick said might give them some ideas for _brand invigoration_. David objected in the strongest terms to the need to steal ideas from other people; he has plenty of his own excellent ones, thank you. But when Patrick said instead that it might serve as a spark for inspiration, like Goop, David allowed himself to be persuaded.

“Feeling inspired?” Patrick says.

“Mm. Mostly by these beignets,” David says, holding up the bag of hot fragrant pastries he’s been snacking on. Patrick is starting to look a bit smug at the success of this outing, and it doesn’t pay to give him too much ammunition.

But the truth is, David _is_ inspired. The open air setting is an unfortunate choice due to the obvious vulnerability to moths, etc, but this isn’t just a series of booths arranged in rows, which is what he had imagined. Instead it feels like a meticulously crafted atmosphere, featuring flowers, produce, homemade candles, and, best of all, a variety of booths serving hot food, desserts, coffee, and wine, all ringing a collection of solid wooden tables and chairs.

“I wonder what their business model is. I’d love to talk to them about it,” Patrick says.

David just hums, far more interested in imagining how Rose Apothecary might incorporate more prepared food, perhaps in conjunction with the events they host regularly. Perhaps Ivan—

His thoughts stutter to a stop as he catches sight of a man on the other side of the market.

He is looking at...himself.

Apparently seeing the same man, Patrick stops short, the bag of artisanal popcorn he’s carrying almost jumping out of his hands. “Holy fffff—”

“Very articulate,” David says, words dripping with sarcasm. He’s having an out of body experience right now. He cannot be held accountable for his tone. “Patrick, that is...he’s...I’m.”

“Okay, which one of us is being less articulate?” Patrick teases and steers David toward a table with a solid hand on his back. “Well, you can’t just march over there and...talk to him. It’ll be like that double Spider-Man meme.”

“I don’t know those words, Patrick. Now is not the time to be overly esoteric with your metaphors.”

They’re seated now, and Patrick is rubbing circles on David’s back, and even though he’s actively discouraging interaction, he seems less than surprised. As if he was somehow prepared to run into a spare version of his own husband. Maybe Patrick fantasizes about two Davids. They’ve never talked about it. It sounds like the exact right kind of threesome, honestly, and why the fuck is he thinking about this?

He’s overloaded, is the thing. This is sensory overload.

In the present, Patrick is still rubbing and now he’s smiling. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll do better with...grounding my metaphors. But just...don’t go over there, because that super handsome guy reminds me very much of someone I promised to spend the rest of my life with, and I’m afraid you two coming face-to-face will cause a...disruption.”

“Like in the space-time continuum?” David hates being responsible for the entire fabric of the universe.

“No. Here, in the market.”

“Ah.” David agrees, relieved.

Now that he feels a little more himself—though apparently he’s not the only one—again, David studies the man covertly. On second (and third and fourth) glance, the man doesn’t look exactly like him. There are differences. This man is slighter, rangier, his build is more wiry. His hair is decidedly more curly and untamed, his eyebrows bushier—though David knows that’s how his hair and eyebrows would look if he didn’t trim and style them meticulously.

This man is also wearing—color. Bright color. In all fairness, the deep raspberry of the McQueen polo he’s wearing does make an excellent contrast against the sun-kissed glow of the other man’s skin.

So, no, it’s not like looking in a mirror. It’s like looking in a...funhouse mirror.

“Look at those short sleeves. Do you think he works out?” Patrick asks, with a smidgen too much interest.

“Who the fuck is that?” David finally pushes out.

Patrick takes out his phone. “I believe we are looking at David Sage, proprietor of Sage Alchemy.”

At that moment, one of the vendors calls out, “Dave, I’ve got your beignets!” And not-David walks over with a smile to accept them.

_Dave._

That is the precise moment David has to put his head between his knees and Patrick’s circles become long, soothing strokes. “It’s okay, Dave—id. David. It’s okay.”

“Too soon,” David groans into his own...groin area, really. This is ridiculous. He starts to sit back up and Patrick makes room for him in his arms. He’s very good at this.

“There he is,” Patrick says warmly, brushing hair back off David’s face. “I’m surprised you aren’t more excited. It’s like your threesome fantasy has come to life.”

“Excuse me?” David is pretty sure he didn’t have those thoughts aloud. But this is an alternate universe and everything is topsy turvy.

Patrick senses his apprehension. “No, when you and Stevie got really high a few months ago, you told me all about how that was the ideal threesome situation because you wouldn’t have to worry about any comparisons being made, and other David would know—” He stops and his teasing smile fades.

David follows Patrick’s unblinking stare.

“Oh.”

Another man has joined Dave. He’s partially obscured by a large display of succulents, but he is unmistakable.

“Oh my God,” Patrick whispers. “It’s me.”

“It’s not _exactly_ you,” David says. Like Dave, this man looks like he could be Patrick's brother. Twin brother. The same, but different.

“Hello, Pat.” Dave’s voice is fond, as Pat leans up to kiss his cheek.

“This is getting freaky,” his Patrick says.

It’s very freaky, but David can’t resist saying, “Oh, _now_ you’re freaked out? Other David was just a threesome possibility for you—”

“For _me?_ Now hold on a second—”

“But now that there’s another _you,_ it’s time to get scared?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. He is staring at the man, his face even paler than usual. David takes the opportunity to look too.

The other Patrick is very cute, almost as cute as David’s Patrick. And there’s something else.

“Patrick, look at your—his—hair. It’s so…” It’s curly, is what it is. Luxurious and bright copper in the sun and there’s one curl that escapes and hits Alt-Patrick in the middle of his forehead. “This is a thing you can do and you’ve been hiding it from me all this time?”

Apparently this question serves to zap Patrick right back into his teasing self. “I assumed you knew hair grew. I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you.” He pops a kernel of popcorn into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I could do that. Do you want me to do that?”

David reaches for the bristly hairs at the base of Patrick’s neck. They’re a specific texture he’s grown very fond of, running his palm over them to soothe Patrick or to tease him or to remind him how much he’s loved and appreciated. But that forehead curl. Makes him feel things. “You know I love your hair, honey. Deeply. But we will definitely be revisiting this topic when things are decidedly less...insane.”

Then other Patrick comes out from behind the succulent display and that’s when David finally sees what he’s wearing.

“Well, look at those,” Patrick says.

“Oh my God.”

Patrick shakes his head sorrowfully. “You only let me wear jorts to mow the lawn.”

“That is the only correct time to wear them.”

“But David, other You doesn’t seem to mind.”

It is true. As they watch, they see alt-David’s hand come to rest on Pat’s waist and then drift down a little to draw circles on his hip. David feels a jolt of recognition. He also likes to touch his Patrick right there, in just that way.

It feels like an intimate moment. David turns away.

Patrick says, “I can only dream of a universe where my husband thinks jorts are acceptable attire.”

“Okay! In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you—”

“I was just kidding, David. I don’t care about—”

“—I love how you look in your jorts!”

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up.

David continues more calmly, “It’s the tight white t-shirt, and the jorts, and the way your arms look pushing the lawnmower, and the way you get all, you know, all flushed and sweaty.”

Now Patrick is smiling gleefully and his eyes are bright and David knows he’s never going to hear the end of it. “So that’s why you always sit on the deck while I mow the lawn. And why we always—”

“Yes,” David says, interrupting. He knows what they always do after Patrick mows the lawn. “There is an aesthetic, which the—the jorts contribute to, which I appreciate very much in the proper context. This”—he waves his arms, indicating their surroundings—“is not the proper context.”

“I never knew.”

“I’m not proud of it,” David says with dignity. “It is your fault for having—what you have. In the jorts.”

“Thank you, David,” Patrick says. He has a soft smile on his face. “I know that was hard for you to admit.”

Across the market, Pat’s voice drifts over. “Let’s go get lunch.”

Dave (ugh) responds, “Do we have time? Remember you have your Boggle tournament this afternoon.”

“Plenty of time for lunch before I go defend my title.”

At David’s side, Patrick looks stunned. _“Boggle,”_ he whispers. His hand closes into a fist.

David pats his arm. “I bet he plays _fiol_ and _votan_ in his matches _,_ like, all the time. _”_

Patrick scowls. “I’d like to see his Sudoku scores,” he mumbles.

Across the market, Pat turns away from them to sling his arm over Dave’s shoulder, giving them his back view.

David grabs Patrick’s arm. “Look,” he says, pointing.

“I’m not looking at other me’s ass,” Patrick says crossly.

“No, not that”—although it cannot be denied that other Patrick does have a pretty great ass—“see the chain draping out of his pocket? I think that’s—it might be—a pocket watch.”

They look at each other. Patrick turns pale. He takes David’s hand and squeezes, hard.

“They might be... _exactly_ like us,” David whispers.

* * *

“Do you think Pat has this freckle, like you do, on his back?”

They’re in Patrick’s childhood bedroom and David has been tracing a light pattern around the aforementioned freckle for the last few minutes.

“I don’t know, David. I thought asking him to take off his shirt might be out of line.”

“He didn’t have a scar under his eyebrow, either. I like your scar. I’d miss it if it wasn’t there.”

“Thanks, David. I’d miss it too, I think.”

David can’t get settled. “Is our height difference as pronounced as theirs? It was kind of sexy, didn’t you think? Although to me you’ve always been eleven feet tall.”

“Ah thanks, David.” Patrick rolls over so their kneecaps are touching. “And not that Dave wasn’t checking plenty of boxes for me, but he wasn’t...he wasn’t you. I wish other Pat every happiness with his David, though.”

“They did seem happy, didn’t they?” David remembers how other David looked at Pat. The way they looked at each other. Seeing love written on their faces.

“They did. Maybe there are even more of us, falling in love across all the universes.”

David shudders. “That’s terrifying.”

“Aw, I don’t think so. I think it’s romantic.”

“After what we saw today and the lack of creative control over our likenesses, I already know the spectrum of fashion choices and preferred monikers will be too much for me to bear.”

“Yeah, and they’ll run out of nicknames for sure. Rick and...Id? Davey and Patty? And when those variations dry up, they’ll have to start using...misspellings. Davis and Oatrick, here we come.”

“Ew. I can’t, Patrick, I can’t.” He huddles into Patrick’s clavicle and Patrick wraps a strong arm around his back.

They’re quiet for a long moment until David speaks again. “Who do you think said ‘I love you’ first?”

Pulling back, Patrick’s face is quizzical in the half-light. “You did, when I got you those front-row Mariah Carey tickets. I still have the scar on my left hip from when you tackle-hugged me after.”

“Yes, of course I remember the first time we said—” Which David absolutely counts as _we_ saying _I love you_ even though Patrick technically said it the next day, after he recovered from the slight concussion he received bearing the full brunt of David’s love and affection. David counts the tickets themselves as Patrick saying the words first. “I meant Dave and Pat. Do you think their story is like ours?”

“I don’t know. We have a pretty kick-ass story. But if I have a wish for them, it’s that Pat knew what a good thing he found and locked that down right away.”

“A beautiful sentiment,” David remarks dryly. “You should write greeting cards.”

Patrick presses a tender kiss to David’s forehead. “I wouldn’t change our story, David. Not for anything.”

“Even with all this Gateway business, where you only see your family when Twyla can get the stars to align, or whatever?”

“Even with that.”

David wraps his arms around Patrick, pulls him snug to his chest. “It’s just...that David was here, hours away from you, your whole life.”

“Maybe.” Patrick shrugs.

David envies how calm Patrick sounds. Dave does _not_ feel calm. It’s been a very messy day and he’s still trying to detangle his thoughts. “What if—what if _he’s_ the David you were meant to be with?”

“Meant to be with? What, like fate?”

“I guess, yeah. Like why did you have to climb out of my closet when you could have just run into this guy at a coffee shop and gotten his number?”

“David. You and your closet are one of a kind. You can’t be swapped out for someone else just because he kind of looks like you. And he obviously found his Pat. Or Pat found him.”

“But what if other Pat had to cross universes because _you_ didn’t get together with the right David?”

“Trust me, you’re the right David. Plus, we don’t know they had to cross universes. Maybe they met in a coffee shop, here in this universe, and just traded numbers.”

“But the watch.”

“Maybe Pat just likes pocket watches. He’s a pretty stylish guy.”

David snorts. “Mmkay. I’m just saying, it seems strange.”

“David. He’s not you. I mean, would you swap me for Mr. Jorts?”

David relaxes. He pulls Patrick closer and kisses his short hair. “No. I want you.”

“See?”

“Although it would be nice to get a little competition for my Boggle game once in a while.”

Patrick frowns. “You know I’m working on—”

David silences him with a kiss. After a beat, Patrick melts against him, and they don’t think about anything else for a while.

Afterwards, he thinks about how Patrick knows him so well, all the little tiny details that make up who he is, and he believes that every one of those details matters to Patrick. And David knows that no one but Patrick will do for him, that every bit of who he is and who he will be, down to the little scar under his eyebrow, is precious to David.

David snuggles against Patrick’s side, in the space where he seems to fit, to slot together naturally. Maybe that’s magic, or fate, that feeling—or, maybe, it’s because they found each other and they both wanted this, and they forged and fought and created this connection together, and they’ll keep doing it, day after day.

“David,” Patrick says into the darkness. “Even if I had met...him, before you, I would have kept looking. Because there’s no one else like you, for me. I wouldn’t care how long it took. I don’t care who or what fate had in mind for me. I would have found you.”

David believes him. He never had any doubt, really. “What...what if you’d come back here, without me? What if I couldn’t follow you?”

Patrick kisses the crown of his head. “I’d cross a thousand universes for you, David Rose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We loved playing in this world so we thought an epilogue might be a fun addition to our story. We hope you enjoyed it too!
> 
> Writing with vivianblakesunrisebay has been an honor and a pleasure and I am not unconcerned that I will no longer open docs to find words left in them as I slept.
> 
> (From Viv) Creating this universe and writing with Likerealpeopledo has been an amazing ride. I will miss DMing long into the night saying things like "I'll add to sinkhole insights and then I'll take a pass through handjobs." 😂 And it IS something like magic to type some mediocre words into a doc and have my amazing writing partner slide in while I sleep and make them great. <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [rockinhamburger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinhamburger/pseuds/rockinhamburger/works%22) and [missgeevious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgeevious/pseuds/missgeevious) for their beta assistance. It was invaluable!


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